


until the day's end

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [49]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Everyone (Eventually) Gets A Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family Feels, Happy Ending, I promise, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Plot, War, Worldbuilding, additional background pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 102,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: “We won, or we think we did.When you went away you were just a kid,And if you lost it all, and you lost it,Well…we’ll still be there when your war is over.”—Stars, “In Our Bedroom After the War”It is 1932.Six years since the Battle of New York; five years since Percival Graves fled from Grindelwald with five friends, now family, across America in a magical suitcase. For the last few years, Graves and Credence have been in hiding, and are finally entering wizarding society.Peace, however, is beyond them. The clouds of war are gathering. The time for flight is over, and it’s time for Graves and the rest of his family to turn and fight. But this time, they won’t fight alone.Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for._

Graves’ footsteps echo in the empty house.

He’s wearing shoes inside, which is strange enough.

And to be here, in an empty room—it’s so strange it nearly knocks him over.

Deliberately, Graves runs his hand along the wall, fingertips trailing over paper and paint, committing the sensation to memory. He looks around, at the empty space where a bed used to stand, at the curtain-less windows where he’s watched so many snowstorms, at the still-cracked ceiling that Credence had accidentally hit during a nasty nightmare. This was their bedroom. Theirs—his and Credence’s, a sanctuary within a sanctuary. How many nights have they spent here, tangled up in each other, sharing everything it’s possible to share? Graves didn’t keep a count, but he wishes that he had.

He leaves the bedroom and pauses, glancing into the bathroom. He had thought there wouldn’t be memories attached to this room. He was wrong. There won’t be any more taking the time to hum favorite old songs and prepare himself for the day, no more terribly narrow sink edge where they both have a bad habit of balancing straight razors—these are  good memories, too. Graves swallows hard, staring at the tiles on the floor, and turns quickly on his heel.

He’s confronted by the study, then, and here he doesn’t stop in the doorway but walks into the room and stands in the center, turning slowly. There are still the shadows of bookcases on the walls, where they blocked the sun from hitting the paper. How often was Credence in here, awake past the witching hour, leaving Graves to find him asleep on the desk in the morning? This was Credence’s place, really, and Graves is going to miss it. It seems far too empty without Credence in it.

And then the sitting room—if the study belonged to Credence, then this was Graves’ room. He spent hours here, reading, practicing his magic, improving his understanding of magical theory, or just thinking. Graves has lost count of the number of times Credence came in and found him staring absently into the fire, thinking, an empty cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. Every time, Credence would smile, take the cup, and leave Graves to it.

Graves comes last into the kitchen and has to stop. This was the center of their life, really, if he’s to think about it properly. Arguments over the correct way to organize dishes. Plants on every available surface, assuming that books hadn’t claimed them first. Evenings at the table, Credence researching his latest project while Graves wrote letters to their friends. That one incident that resulted in a permanently wobbly leg on the table. Credence irritably dragging pail after pail of raspberries into the house from the garden while Graves methodically put together jar after jar of preserves, laughing at Credence’s sunburned shoulders and grass-stained bare feet.

And here is where Graves finds Credence, standing staring out the window at the now-empty garden. He’d been outside a long time yesterday, even though the plants are gray and dead in the winter cold, and Graves can’t blame him. Credence has poured his heart and soul into the project, and now he’s leaving it for good. The anxiety Credence is clearly feeling about this—anxiety of which Graves feels a real echo—is perfectly understandable.

Graves crosses the empty room to embrace Credence from behind. Immediately Credence leans back into him, and Graves rests his chin on Credence’s shoulder. “We don’t have to go,” he says, one final time. He’s offered this more than once, and always Credence has turned him down.

This time is no exception. “We do,” Credence replies. He turns his head a bit, so they’re cheek to cheek, and closes his eyes.

This was a decision long in the making, one they’ve discussed so much that Graves could recite every argument for and against in his sleep. They could stay safe here for the rest of their lives. But they won’t. Graves, who can’t speak Russian and can’t seem to learn it, is not doing well with only Credence for company. He wouldn’t complain, if Credence chose to stay, but the isolation is beginning to get to him. And it’s time, now that he won’t be shot on sight or arrested, for Credence to enter wizarding society. There are opportunities waiting for him, in London or Paris or Stockholm. Graves is certain of it. A move now is the best possible choice.

But that doesn’t mean this isn’t hard.

“I don’t want to go,” Credence confesses in a whisper, after a long moment of silence. “This is—this is home, Percival.”

“I know,” Graves says. His heart is heavy. This is the first place Credence ever called ‘home,’ and one of very few places where Graves has ever felt safe. Moving away means those things are lost, and Credence is not handling it well. “I know.”

They stand in the empty kitchen for a while. Credence needs a last chance to mourn this particular loss, and Graves is happy to hold him while he does. Still, Graves hopes that Credence will recover quickly from this change. This, as he’s said over and over, is an adventure. A whole new world for Credence. It’s something that Credence has wanted his whole life, and something that Graves can’t wait for him to have.

Graves half expects Credence to turn and ask that they stop now. That they stay here, safe and hidden, that Graves send the world away again. As much as it might hurt, if Credence asked, Graves would do anything.  

Credence doesn’t ask.

Instead, they lock up the house for the final time. They collect their bags and walk down the mountain for the last time in the drab late-winter sunlight. The morning air is chill, promising snow again soon. Graves has another brief moment of nostalgia: they won’t be here to see the storms this time, or the summer that follows. He dismisses it, though. He turns his face into the wind and reminds himself that what matters is not the place, but the man walking next to him.

Graves is forty-seven; not so old, considering, but beside twenty-nine-year-old Credence, he feels damn near ancient. Credence stands straight and tall now, confident, his handsome face perpetually alive with thought. His hair, increasingly wavy, has grown all the way to his shoulders and even a bit past. He wears it tied back with a ribbon, typically, though Graves always likes to see it down.

Lately Graves has noticed a change in his demeanor, his former cheer carrying a harder edge than usual, but he can’t help attributing it to stress. Credence still suffers the worst nightmares, but he’s worked impossibly hard to overcome the obstacles in his path. There are a hundred and one things that must be done for both of them to live normally, with the Obscurus a constant presence for Credence, and still Credence manages to smile. Graves isn’t sure if it’s possible for him to love the man more.

They don’t hold hands, walking down that mountain, only go shoulder to shoulder. The tiny village is bustling at this hour. People wave to them; Credence waves back. Graves, who somehow still knows barely anyone, doesn’t. It’s Credence who goes to church weekly, who’s acquired more than passable Russian. Despite Credence’s familiarity here, they don’t stop to chat. There just isn’t time. Newt will be here soon with their transportation to England.

At an empty field just on the other side of the village, mostly flat and quite wide, Credence and Graves stop. This is the prearranged meeting point, and they’re early.

“Is being overly punctual an Auror thing?” Credence asks, dropping the bags he carries and shaking out his arms.

“No, I think it’s an age thing,” Graves says. He sets down his load and stretches a bit. “You’ve been getting better over time.”

“Because of overexposure to you, old man.”

Graves sighs and shakes his head. “You’re just a whippersnapper with no idea what you’re doing.”

Credence shoves his hands in his pockets and lounges with pointed insolence on a fence post, looking like an absolute delinquent. “Oh, really?”

Graves narrows his eyes, unable to stop a smile pulling at his mouth. “Really.”

“I always know what I’m doing,” Credence says smugly.

Something catches Graves’ eye before he can reply. He pauses and turns, looking up into the sky, shading his eyes with his hand. Half a second later, Credence bursts out,

“Is that a _flying carriage_?”

It is, in fact, a flying carriage.

Graves laughs with delight, waving without dignity as the carriage circles the village in a swinging arc. “I had no idea Newt would take one!”

Credence is utterly agape. “Wizards _have_ those!?”

“I’d forgotten you hadn’t seen one yet,” Graves says. He stops watching the carriage in favor of watching Credence. It’s always a delight when Credence encounters new magic.

“It’s big as an aeroplane!” Credence says. His eyes are huge and he’s absolutely beaming.

The flying carriage swoops around the village one more time and then plunges from the sky with alarming quickness and grace to alight across the field. And then a familiar slim figure, red hair gleaming in the pale sunlight, leaps down from the seat and bounds across the field toward them. “Credence! Percival!” Newt crows.

Credence drops everything he’s holding to sprint across the field and crash into Newt in a messy hug. Graves just smiles, watching Newt fumble for a moment before returning the hug tenfold. It’s almost as if they didn’t see each other a mere month ago. When Graves gets there, he and Newt share a hug that’s just as strong. Graves will never cease to treasure his friendship with the magizoologist or believe that Newt is one of the best friends he’s ever had.

And, of course, Pickett came along. Graves greets him happily: the Bowtruckle is mature, with a glorious crown of leaves, and he has a lot to say. “I still don’t understand a word you’re saying,” Graves says, setting Pickett on his shoulder, “but I missed you too.”

They load up the bags into the carriage. There’s space for Newt and Graves and Credence, all three of them, and Newt promises to sit inside with them instead of up on the box as he did when he flew out here. “I only didn’t because I was worried the Hippogriffs might get a bit lost,” he explains, heaving the bag that contains most of the furniture—miniaturized with Shrinking Charms—through the door.

Credence peers around the front of the carriage at them. Graves glances over his shoulder. The Hippogriffs are stunning. Proud beasts, with inky black feathers and swirling golden eyes. “They don’t look like they’d get lost easily.”

“Not easily, but they can be temperamental and quite stubborn,” Newt says. He watches them with a soft fondness. “Might have just turned around and gone back to England, if I wasn’t careful.”

 

“Like carrier pigeons!”

Graves nods thoughtfully. “Efficient. Though—Newt, are you _really_ breaking the law to get us back to England with you?”

“Oh, no one cares,” Newt says.

His flippancy is already giving Graves a pleasant headache. “Unbelievably illegal activity with dangerous magical creatures is how we got into our first mess, or did you forget? Hippogriffs aren’t to be used publicly for travel.”

“There are permits, if you’re clever.”

“If you have a brother who was in the Ministry of Magic, you mean.”

“Theseus would _never_ —”

The argument continues all the way until they board the carriage and Newt sets the Hippogriffs on course for England and the Scamander estate. Graves forgot how smooth flying carriages are, and relishes being in the air again. He doesn’t like brooms, but this kind of conveyance is always nice.

And the conversation is good, too. Newt is full of stories about the younger Theseus Scamander, about how he’s speaking well for his age, and stumbling along after his parents with the best of efforts, and sharing things with everyone. “I do think he’s learning from Dougal,” Newt says. “He wants to share everything. And I think the Occamies think he’s their sibling…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Graves says. He’s got his arm around Credence’s shoulders and Credence is leaning against him like a pillow. Graves knows his arm will fall asleep in a bit, but he doesn’t really mind. “You treat those creatures like they’re your children.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “There’s no other way to treat them.”

Muffled by Graves’ coat, Credence says, “You could treat them as, you know, as regular old creatures.”

“I couldn’t!”

“A Fwooper isn’t that different from a chicken, at the end of the day,” Credence says.

Newt makes an offended noise, but Graves laughs. “He has a point,” he says, and Newt looks disgruntled, but smiles reluctantly when Graves continues: “Still, I wouldn’t use their eggs for omelets.”

They drift into a comfortable silence, after a while. The rocking of the carriage as the Hippogriffs fly is soothing, Credence’s weight on Graves is warm, and the sound of wind against the carriage is entrancing. Eventually, Newt, tired from the trip out, stretches out over the opposite seat to take a cat nap. Credence and Graves, for their part, sit in comfortable silence together.

Finally, Credence speaks. “So we’ll be staying at the Scamander estate for a while, right?”

“That’s our plan.”

“Given our history with well-laid plans, I can safely assume we’ll be living in the suitcase somewhere in Wales, then.”

Graves laughs quietly, careful not to wake Newt. “Probably.”

They settle into silence again. Nothing more needs to be said. Graves thinks fondly about all the times that their plans, in the last six years, have gone awry. There are the famous incidents—an ill-advised trip to a speakeasy comes immediately to mind—and the less famous ones, like the time that Credence said he’d plant just a couple of tomatoes and ended up growing an entire garden full.

Here’s to hoping that this plan, at least, doesn’t derail too spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everybody!
> 
> Yes, this is the Hypothetical Sequel! Happy birthday to me--it is actually my birthday so this is my present to myself, as well as for all of you. As you can see, the posting schedule remains the same: Monday, Wednesday, Saturday.
> 
> Dedicated to a number of people. My sister and beta reader, Pyxyl, who convinced me to spend my summer rewriting this fic from the ground up, and encouraged me through all of it, dealing with my tears, random late-night texts, and a habit of using parentheses instead of em-dashes. My girlfriend adrift_me for all her endless support and cheerleading as this project grew. EqualOpportunityReader1 and ofplanet_earth, who have both managed to predict half my damn plot twists (whether they know it or not). 
> 
> And to ALL the members of the Suitcase Family. Whether you've been around since this epic began, or you're just joining up now, there's no group of people I'd rather have on this crazy ride. You're an inspiration, every single one of you, and I can't wait to share this with you. <3<3<3<3<3<3
> 
> Let's get this show on the road.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew...unfortunate that the weekend is over. But here we are, and chapter two is a go! 
> 
> Y'all, this is fucking _surreal_. 
> 
> This sucker has been a work in progress for over a year and a half. And here we are, with The Big One...I literally thought the internet would END before I managed to get it up. Like, man, we're on "Save The Internet Part 6: Infinity War" at this point! Legitimately never expected I'd be posting this...
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

It’s a long flight. They have to go all the way to Shropshire, in England, and they also have to take a detour because there are several points where they are at severe risk of being spotted. If they’re seen, “derail” will be the simplest word to use. There’s also several stops so that everyone can take care of basic needs and stretch their legs. By two o’clock the following afternoon, though, they’re landing on the grounds of a large, beautiful country house.

The land is quite beautiful, all rolling hills and fields broken up by copses of trees under a wide-open sky. While Graves has traveled to England, of course, he always perceived it as tiny and cramped. He’s only ever been to London. On flying over Shropshire, he learns something new. England is rather open after all. He understands why the Scamanders live out here. There’s more than enough space for Hippogriffs. There would be space to keep _dragons_ , if they wanted.

Everyone at the house must have seen them as they were coming in, because by the time Graves comes down from the carriage there is a _crowd_ on the lawn. Tina, Young Theseus, Queenie, Jacob, a tall man Graves doesn’t recognize, and an older couple standing a bit back. He hasn’t taken two steps before Queenie has flown across the lawn and leaped to throw her arms around his neck.

“I didn’t think you’d ever get here!” she says.

Graves had no idea how much he missed Queenie until she’s right there. “Neither did I,” he says, setting her down on the ground and kissing her on the cheek. “But I’m glad to be here.”

Queenie hauls Graves away from the carriage, despite his protestations that he should be helping Newt and Credence with the bags, so he can say hello to the rest.

“Looking good, Graves,” Jacob says, greeting him with the warmest handshake of all time.

“You, too. How’s business?” Graves asks, unable to stop smiling.

“Better than ever! We’ve had to hire more kitchen help. But I’m still confusing the hell out of the English with my scones,” Jacob says proudly.

“They’re awful!” the tall man says teasingly, strolling over. “You Americans…”

Jacob looks at him in friendly irritation. “Oh, right. Meet Newt’s older brother,” he says. “He’s about as awful as my scones.”

“Which is to say not awful at all,” the man says. He offers his hand. “Theseus Scamander.”

Graves shakes firmly. “Percival Graves,” he says. Theseus Scamander is a handsome man. He has Newt’s curly hair, but his hair is dark and his gray gaze is far steadier. There’s a faint, long-healed spell scar on his temple, indicating the heroic life he’s supposed to have led. And his cheekbones could probably cut someone. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Credence appears abruptly beside them, dropping a bag with a thud. “Credence,” he says, shaking Theseus’ hand.

Theseus shakes, still smiling, and says, “Pleasure. Last name so I can send you letters?”

“No last name,” Credence says. Graves sees him freeze up a little, and sighs internally. Last year Credence finally found out that the Barebone name is connected to an ancient branch of Scourers, Americans who hated magic, and were directly responsible for the introduction of Rappaport’s Law. By extension, they were entirely responsible for the disaster that was his early life, through the interferences of Mary Lou. Given all of this, he dropped the name entirely. Graves honestly doesn’t blame him, though the sudden lack of surname has presented its own problem.

Theseus, though he looks curious, doesn’t ask. Instead, he chivvies Graves and Credence over to the older man and woman. “Got to meet the parents,” he says in an undertone, conspiratorial. “Newt acts like you’re his brothers often enough, might as well give them a chance to think it—”

“He acts like _what_ ,” Credence says, audibly alarmed, but Theseus is already flourishing Credence at the Scamander matriarch like some kind of flower bouquet.

“Credence, Newt’s little brother and your other son,” Theseus says.

Graves almost has to laugh at Credence’s beet-red embarrassment. Jacob and Tina are also trying to contain themselves. “It’s a pleasure,” Credence says awkwardly as he shakes Mrs. Scamander’s hand.

“Newt thinks very highly of you,” Mrs. Scamander says. That isn’t particularly reassuring, given her tone; she sounds like Newt’s esteem is something that means very, very little. The tone is a touch irritable, and Graves sees Credence start to shrink on himself a little. He steps up beside him, hand on the small of Credence’s back.  

“Mrs. Scamander,” he says smoothly, and half turns to include the Scamander patriarch, “and Mr. Scamander. Thank you for welcoming us to your home.” He shakes hands with both, and is pleased to note that Mrs. Scamander has already moved on from the awkwardness of Credence’s introduction.

“It’s our pleasure,” Mr. Scamander says. At a glance, Graves sees something interesting: the man isn’t a wizard. No wand, no subtle accommodation to carrying one. He smiles at them, and Graves sees exactly where Newt got his smile. “I’m happy to finally get to meet the men who caused all that ruckus a few years ago.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Graves says wryly. “Could have been far worse.” He gives Credence a small push toward Tina, out of the way, while he chats with the Scamanders about weather, Hippogriff breeding, and other sundries. When he finally gets to speak to Tina, he feels his smile come back in full force. “It’s good to see you, Tina.”

She gives him a one-armed hug, since Young Theseus is in her other arm, balanced on her hip. “I missed you! How was the flight?”

“Illegal,” Graves says.

Tina rolls her eyes. “I told Newt that you would harp on that. He didn’t listen.”

Young Theseus is peeking at Graves. He’s got his face half buried in Tina’s shoulder, and it might just be the single sweetest thing Graves has ever seen. He gives a little wave. Young Theseus squeaks and hides his whole face in Tina’s shirt.

“He’s shy around new people,” Tina says, rubbing the child’s back.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Graves says.

Tina sighs. “I just hope he grows out of it.”

“If he’s anything like his parents, he will,” Graves says.

“Hey—come help carry things!” Jacob calls. Graves obeys, going and taking a bag from Jacob and then following Queenie into the house so she can bring them to their room. They have five bags, between them: neither one of them is particularly spectacular at casting Undetectable Extension Charms, so Shrinking Charms had been used instead. This only marginally reduces the total weight of books and furniture and the one bag devoted entirely to the _surreal_ amount of preserved food the two of them made in the last few years. Credence’s garden really has—had, Graves supposes—an overproduction problem.

The Scamanders set aside a whole guest room and adjoining bath for the two of them. It’s a bit overwhelming, the suite more than half the size of their entire house in just two vast rooms. Queenie tells them that dinner is at six tonight, and then the door shuts behind her and they’re alone.

“Well,” Graves says, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Credence flops down on his face, full-length on the bed. “I know _exactly_ what you mean,” he says into the pillows.

“I forgot—”

“—how _loud_ people are. And—”

“—how _many_ of them there are—”

“—they _all_ talk at once—”

“—about _nothing!_ ”

With a laugh, Credence rolls over. The way Graves is sitting means that Credence is curled around his back. It’s like having a large warm cat wrapped around him, and he likes it. “I think the isolation was getting to us,” Credence says. “We’ve started finishing each other’s sentences.”

Deftly, Graves pulls the ribbon holding Credence’s hair back free and starts running his fingers through it. He resolutely tries not to compare the sound Credence makes to the purr of an overlarge cat, and fails. “Queenie and Jacob do it.”

Credence yawns widely. “Doesn’t count. Queenie reads minds.”

“Fair.”

The room is quiet for a minute. Distantly, Graves hears a man’s laugh, but he can’t tell where it is since the Scamander house is huge. He could be just about anywhere. The sound is indistinct, only audible because there’s really no other noise at all. Sunlight is flooding in through the windows, so warm that it’s putting Graves to sleep.

“Move over,” Graves says. Credence rolls over immediately, sliding across the bed a bit. Graves stretches out behind him, an arm over his waist, and Credence relaxes. It’s nearly instant, though some of Credence’s obvious tension remains.

“Still doesn’t feel like home,” Credence murmurs, half asleep.

Graves pushes Credence’s hair away so he can speak.. “This is just a stop on our way,” he says.

“You know where we’re going?”

“No, but I do know we’ll be fine, wherever we go.” And while Graves might not actually know for a certainty that they will be, he chooses to believe that they will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onward!
> 
> A _brief_ mention of homophobia in the middle of Graves' backstory. He is completely unbothered by it, but I thought I should warn.  <3

Dinner is late: the Scamanders all seem to share a distinct disregard for anything resembling a schedule. Graves doesn’t mind. It gives him time to catch up with Queenie while Credence sleeps off the trip and, hopefully, some stress.

They walk in the garden together, enjoying the sight of the Hippogriffs out to pasture. “I’m glad you’re here,” Queenie says. “It just ain’t the same without you.”

“I’m sure you have just as much fun,” Graves says.

“We have as much fun, but not the same kind,” Queenie says. She glances up at him. “I think it will be good for you two, being with people again.”

Graves watches one great Hippogriff soar overhead. “I agree,” he says. “Credence is a little…”

“Dependent?”

“Yes.”

Queenie sighs. “He’s having a rough time,” she says. “Can’t hear it all through the Obscurus, but he’s real scared.”

“It’s all new for him.”

“I think we made a mistake, sending you both off alone,” Queenie says. She looks terribly sad, that line between her brows telling Graves how she feels. “With nobody but you, what else could Credence do but measure being independent by you?”

 “And what else could we do but go alone?” Graves asks wearily. “It wasn’t well-thought-out, but it’s not as if we had time to think.”

Queenie links her arm through his. “It ain’t your fault, so don’t you go walking around believing you caused all this,” she says gently. “You did what you thought best. We all did.”

Graves glances back at the house. “I just hope it’s enough,” he says, thinking of the last two weeks of tension, of Credence’s odd behavior. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t.

“You’ll do what you always do,” Queenie says. “You’ll get through it and come out the other side stronger than you were before.”

As always, Graves takes comfort in Queenie’s words. They walk together a while longer, before turning back to the house. When they come in, Credence and Jacob are just coming down the stairs, laughing loudly together. Jacob’s in the middle of some story about the bakery:

“—flew across the counter,” he says, “right into his face—”

“What was _in_ it, anyway?” Credence asks, laughing.

“I don’t know, but I ain’t ever letting anyone do magic on my pies again!”

Graves and Queenie stop as Jacob and Credence step off the stairs, still laughing. “Thought you’d sleep forever!” Queenie says to Credence, grinning at whatever she’s hearing in their thoughts.

“Travel exhausts me,” Credence says dramatically, feigning a swoon. His hand on his brow, falling toward the floor and catching himself at the last minute. He catches Graves’ hand and weaves their fingers together. By now he looks much more awake, and a great deal happier, wearing more patterns than anyone ever should. Blue-and-green striped shirt, orange tie with a design of small squares, a decent black suit. Graves thinks he looks admirable.

“You slept longer than Young Theseus,” Jacob points out.

Graves coughs delicately. “If long sleep is related to age, then, well. I believe that ‘whippersnapper’ was the word I used earlier…?”

Queenie laughs. “He’s nearly thirty!”

“That signifies nothing,” Graves says. He cocks a sideways grin at Credence. “It’s only fair trade, when he keeps calling me old.”

Credence opens his mouth to reply with something indignant, but is interrupted by Newt bounding down the stairs. “Am I late?” he asks. “I got caught up in some work on Puffskeins…”

“You ain’t late, honey,” Queenie says.

Jacob looks around. There’s no one else in sight. “Should we just head on to the dining room?”

Newt is already halfway across the room. “Tina will be along shortly,” he says over his shoulder, “she told me to go along first.”

They all follow Newt into the dining room. Graves hasn’t been in a house maintained with old money for a while. Clearly, the profitability of their Hippogriff breeding business is only offsetting a sizeable inheritance. It’s an easy environment for Graves. His own house in New York was irreproachable for a man of his status and wealth, but it was clearly a bachelor’s very new residence. This place is opulent, fine things no one will ever use packed into rooms to spare.

Credence sticks close by Graves. “I don’t know how you’re doing this,” he says in a low voice, as there’s shuffling around and finding of places to sit. “I thought you didn’t like being around people.”

“Do you know how many dinners with senators or ambassadors or presidents I had?” Graves replies in an undertone. “Or hell, just going to see my family…I’ve done it, though it’s not my favorite thing to do. At least here we’re with people we like.”

There’s a reason that, before he became a walking shame to the entire social group of the families of the Original Twelve, Graves didn’t see his extended family often. As the last direct descendant of Gondolphus Graves, the whole family inheritance and all the pressure of the family name landed on his shoulders. As a young man he hadn’t taken it particularly well, and ended up ostracizing his whole family by being horribly independent. Although he followed the correct career path and comported himself appropriately, he’d decided it wasn’t worth his time to worry about what all those uncles and cousins and grandmothers four times removed had to say.

By the time he graduated Ilvermorny at seventeen, he’d successfully managed to estrange most of the family. His parents held out hope for a while but, when Graves was seen in public with another man for a partner, guaranteeing that he wouldn’t be continuing the family line, even they had thrown up their hands. He hadn’t been cut out of the inheritance because of the sheer scandal that would cause, but no one bothered to see him, and he didn’t bother to see them. When Grindelwald came to New York in 1926, Graves hadn’t spoken directly to anyone who shared his name in five years or more. No wonder that his family hadn’t noticed his replacement.

It’s not as if Graves cares at all. He’s found a much better group of people right here.

Newt doesn’t really bother to help them all get seated, to no one’s surprise, so Queenie does it instead. Graves notices that she’s got him where he can see the whole room and doesn’t have his back to the window, and is pretty grateful for it. Credence sits on his right side, with Newt on his left. Jacob sits beside Credence, and presumably Tina will sit by Newt.

All at once, banging the door open theatrically, Theseus strolls into the room and swings into a chair at the table, right at the head. He’s impressively casual, considering that they’re at dinner and just judging by the way this house is arranged even a family dinner will be much more formal than any other meal. Theseus is dressed stylishly, youthful despite the fact that he’s only five years younger than Graves. “Good evening,” he says with a brilliant smile.

“Evening, Theseus,” Newt says. They really look alike, Graves thinks. It’s amazing.

“How are the Puffskeins?” Theseus asks.

Newt smiles brightly. “They’re doing quite well. The female is at least a little interested in the Appaloosa Puffskein male, so…I hope very much that you’re prepared to have more pets.”

Theseus laughs. “If you had nephews and nieces, that would be a pleasant proposition. As it is, you’re going to need to find another home, all my friends are quite over the fad.”

“We are _not_ keeping all the Puffskeins,” Tina announces, coming in with Young Theseus in her arms just as Theseus finishes speaking. “You have to end things somewhere!”

Newt smiles up at her. “Don’t worry. I have quite a reputable buyer waiting for them.”

Tina rolls her eyes and hands Young Theseus to Graves before she sits down. The child gives Graves a rather serious look and then sits down on his lap to play with his tie. Before he can be inadvertently strangled, Graves hands the child a napkin to divert his interest. Young Theseus is happy with that, and settles down to chew on it.

“He likes you,” Credence says with a smile.

Tina rests an elbow on the table, leaning around Newt so she can see them. “I’m fairly sure that he likes you better than he likes me. That child plays favorites.”

As if to prove a point, Young Theseus abruptly abandons the napkin and scans the table. He reaches out toward his parents. “Mum! Mum!”

Graves gets up to hand Young Theseus to Tina, but she holds up her hands to stop him. “No, no, that isn’t me,” she says.

“What do you—”

“It’s me,” Newt says with a resigned sigh. Tina bursts into laughter as Young Theseus scrambles from Graves’ arms into Newt’s.

“He calls himself Mum so often around the creatures that Theseus just picked it up,” Tina explains between giggles.

Jacob laughs, too. “No matter how many times I hear it, it’s still funny.”

Newt shakes his head, doleful, and ruffles his son’s hair. “I should have stopped it before he learned to talk.”

“Too late now, Mum,” Theseus says brightly. Newt fires an unimpressed look at his older brother, but that only serves to make Tina and Jacob laugh harder.

“Pippa, Mum,” Young Theseus says, tugging on Newt’s shirt.

“No, Pippa isn’t here,” Newt says.

“Pippa,” Young Theseus insists.

“And…who is Pippa? Do I have a god-daughter I don’t know about?” Graves asks, raising his eyebrows in a pretense of alarm.

“That’s _Pickett_ ,” Tina says, through a fresh burst of laughter.

Credence lets out a shout of laughter. “You mean to tell me I’m related to a Bowtruckle?”

“It was only a matter of time,” Jacob says, leaning forward so he can look around Credence and Graves to see Newt. “He calls himself Mum for a reason!”

Tina nearly cries with laughter at that and even Newt manages a reluctant smile. Before anything else can be said, Mr. Scamander strolls into the room and sits down beside Theseus. “I hope I haven’t missed too many good jokes.”

“We _only_ just found out the name of your granddaughter, Dad!” Theseus says.

That sets Tina off again. She’s laughing so hard they can barely understand her, but Graves gets the impression that she’s talking about Newt having a Bowtruckle for a mistress. By the time she calms down—and they’ve all stopped laughing at Newt’s beet-red embarrassment—Queenie and Mrs. Scamander have come in with dinner.

They don’t handle the dishes themselves, but rather send each plate floating to its intended recipient with graceful flicks of their wands. It’s roast beef, with mustard and horseradish, served with potatoes, carrots, and asparagus, and small fluffy Yorkshire puddings.

“Did you have a hand in this?” Graves asks Jacob, looking down at the delicious dinner.

“Not at all,” Jacob says with a wave of his hand. “I might be good, but even I know to get out of the way when those two get going.”

“Wise,” Theseus comments. “Mum—not you, Newt—is the tyrant of the kitchens!”

Mrs. Scamander smacks her son’s shoulder lightly. “I’m amazed at what a rascal you still are.”

Beside Graves, Credence is keeping his head down. Graves catches the end of a quick prayer before Credence picks anything up to eat, and feels a small burst of happiness. It’s good to see that Credence is still working on that whole faith connection.

“Percival!” Newt says, turning to him. “I forgot to ask on the carriage ride here. Have you heard anything about creature smuggling in Iran?”

Graves turns his attention away from a highly entertaining, loud, and cheerful argument about organizational management happening between Tina and Theseus. “No,” he says. “Is it Serpopards again?”

Newt laughs. “No, no,” he says. “It’s all kinds of things—animals passing through Iran to be shipped to Venice!”

“Venice?”

“Black market trade,” Newt says with a shrug. “Especially of creatures, since Venice is a great big melting pot for the Mediterranean.”

Graves considers that as he takes a bite of roast beef. “Are you asking me if I want to go to Iran?”

Newt’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe,” he says.

On his other side, Graves catches an uncomfortable snatch of conversation. “…must admit that I was a little uncertain as to the kind of men you would turn out to be,” Mrs. Scamander says to Credence, from across the table.

“Oh?” Credence says. He sounds like he’s attempting nonchalance, but Graves can hear the slight shakiness. He takes Credence’s hand under the table.

“I don’t know much,” Mrs. Scamander says, “because most of what happened is still classified, if Theseus is to be believed. I could only assume that outlaws would be…well. Outlaws.”

Graves glances sideways. Credence has mustered up a smile, but it’s weak at best. “Oh, yes, it’s still classified,” he says, and continues: “I assure you that most outlaws I’ve met don’t look like you’d expect. Most of them are decently dressed, at least, even gangsters.”

“Especially gangsters,” Jacob chimes in, and there’s a general laugh.

“You really don’t look like an outlaw,” Mrs. Scamander says. Her tone is a little more approving, her expression shifting to one of friendly curiosity. “You look like a proper wizard. What’s your House?”

“I—” Credence starts, more than a little panicked, and Graves cuts in.

“Wampus,” he says.

Mrs. Scamander blinks, and then laughs. “Oh, I forgot you Americans have different Houses in your school! Well, then, what’s a Wampus?”

Graves leans back in his chair and folds his arms comfortably. “I think Newt can tell you more about the Wampus cat than I can,” he says, gesturing to Newt.

“It’s a six-legged cat, easily mistaken for a common mountain lion,” Newt rattles off, attention snapping to Graves and Mrs. Scamander. His gaze flicks between them, appraising. “Quite strong, most aggressive, and very nearly impossible to catch or kill. Fearsomely intelligent, not something to be lightly tangled with even by the best of wizards.”

“Right,” Graves says. He feels a flickers of House pride and smiles. “And that’s what a good Wampus student is. We’re a house of strong wizards and witches, fighters one and all. Not only physical combatants, mind, Wampus has had quite a few demagogues come from its ranks.”

“It’s probably a good thing that Percival and I didn’t go to school together,” Credence says, smiling. “We might have burned down the school.”

“I don’t want to think about that!” Tina exclaims. She shudders theatrically and Graves gives her a look. She smiles at him and takes a bite of Yorkshire pudding.

Mrs. Scamander seems satisfied by all of that. “I don’t want to think about having two Gryffindor sons,” she says, with an arch look at Theseus. “Your Wampus sounds quite like Gryffindor.”

“Percival would fit into Gryffindor quite well,” Newt says.

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not,” Graves says.

“Flattered!” Theseus says loudly. “We’re the best of the best!”

“Says the only Gryffindor at a table of Hufflepuffs,” Mr. Scamander says with a smile. Newt laughs and raises his glass a little.

“What school will Young Theseus go to, when he’s of age? Hogwarts or Ilvermorny?” Mr. Scamander asks Tina.

She and Newt exchange a look over their son’s head. Graves looks between them. He’d never thought to ask such a question, always assuming that Young Theseus would attend Hogwarts, since he’d never be allowed to go to Ilvermorny.

“We’d thought about schooling him at home, or by correspondence,” Tina says. “Newt and I haven’t stopped traveling, and we’d never want to leave Young Theseus alone.” She smooths his hair and he smiles up at her, before returning to playing with his potatoes.

“I like that idea,” Jacob says. “If you two could practically teach a Muggle to do magic, I think you can teach your own son!”

“It’s a little odd,” Mr. Scamander says thoughtfully, “but there are plenty of oddities, being a Muggle in a wizard’s world. But I can’t say there’s ever a dull moment.”

Queenie smiles brightly. “There certainly isn’t in this family,” she says. That, Graves wholeheartedly agrees with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The footnotes are back! 
> 
> So with the clothes. That was the HEIGHT of 1920s fashion, but, ah, Credence has been out of society for a while. I also am not sure he'd care about it, given the whole "stuck wearing drab colors for his entire life" thing. You can look at Vintage Dancer to get a more specific idea of just what men were wearing in the 1920s...some of it is just plain WILD!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for discussion of serious self-harm in the second scene.** It's when Jacob and Graves sit down to talk. 
> 
> Good morning to you too! :D

They retire to another room for conversation and tea after dinner. No one objects when Mrs. Scamander and Newt excuse themselves; Mrs. Scamander turns in early, and Newt has creatures and Young Theseus to care for.

Graves is more than a little impatient to discuss business matters, so after about five minutes of small talk he unsubtly broaches the subject of finding a house in which he and Credence might live. “If none of you mind, it would be nice to talk about—”

“We’ve all been waiting for you to bring up houses,” Queenie says warmly. Graves gives her a look and she just laughs. “Go on, you’re anxious!”

 “It’s not that I’m ungrateful for your hospitality,” Graves says to Mr. Scamander, with an apologetic smile, “but we are in England for a purpose.”

“I understand quite well,” Mr. Scamander says, returning the smile. He rises and goes across the room to bring out a large map of England and unrolls it on the table, heedless of clutter. “Here. I have recommendations, if you’ll permit me—?”

Graves is on his feet in a moment, joining him at the table. Tina follows, too, joining them. “I’d appreciate anything you’ve got,” he says. “I know next to nothing.”

While Queenie and Credence chat, and Theseus and Jacob discuss Theseus’ security consultation business, Graves is schooled in British wizarding communities. There are plenty of them, little neighborhoods of witches and wizards scattered across the country.

“We are _not_ living in London,” Graves says firmly, after the third time Tina suggests it.

“That’s the right idea,” Mr. Scamander says. “Theseus may like it, but I find it too loud.”

Graves shakes his head. “We both had enough of city living, I think. New York was plenty.”

“Well, what about Appleby?” Tina asks in a mildly exasperated tone, pointing at a little dot on the map. “Small, not too far out…ooh, and it has a Quidditch team.”

“That might attract too much attention,” Graves says. “Too many people going in and out for my taste, personally. Poor fit.”

“Said the actress to the bishop,” Theseus says with a cough.

Graves looks up from the map. “Well, have you got a better idea?”

“Hogsmeade,” Theseus says promptly, leaning back in his chair, smiling brightly. “Most famous wizarding village anywhere.”

“…you know, that’s an idea,” Tina says.

Credence joins Graves at the table. “It might be interesting,” he says, something a little shy in his voice. “I mean, I’ve heard of it.”

“All-wizarding village,” Jacob says with a smile. “Can’t be a better place for Credence, right?”

At the idea of being surrounded by wizards, Credence gets a little tense. Graves doesn’t understand it, but still steps a little closer, brushing their shoulders together. “We should visit,” he says.

“I like that idea,” Credence says. Just by the sound of his voice, Graves can hear his general unhappiness. Obviously, others hear it—Jacob gives him a keen look and Queenie’s lips press together.

“It sounds like a good plan,” Mr. Scamander says brightly. “Lots of new people to meet, lots of new experiences. You’ve been out of society for a while, I hear!”

“I have,” Credence says. His voice cracks a little. “This will be an adventure.”

Before anyone else can make a suggestion, Graves steps in. “We’ll be taking it slow,” he says diplomatically. “One step at a time.”

Graves is making a determined effort to avoid looking at the faintly shifting shadows in the room, shadows that shouldn’t be there. He hasn’t seen Credence lose control of the Obscurus in a while, and that it’s happening now when they should be safe frankly scares him. This shouldn’t happen.

But other people have noticed. Tina is watching, and so is Queenie. Theseus, leaning by the mantlepiece, is pointedly not watching as he stares at a point on the floor. Though Graves expects someone else to speak, it’s Jacob who actually steps in to save the situation.

 “You’d damn well better take me along,” he announces. “I can’t let you two run off to have adventures without me, can I?”

“I suppose we can’t,” Graves says with an easy laugh. “You’d just follows us anyway.”

“And we wouldn’t want you to stay behind,” Credence says. He smiles at Jacob, and the shadows fade. The conversation moves on, but Graves is left with something worrying at the back of his mind. He thought that Credence had changed, that he had improved, that things were getting better.

After five years together, just what did Graves miss?

 

***

 

They plan to travel to Hogsmeade next week, after giving both Credence and Graves a chance to recover a bit from the shock of the sudden move. It didn’t take long for everyone to realize that Credence is struggling, and deeply so. He flinches at loud noises, jumps at steps outside the door. He paces half the night, or simply vanishes. Graves spends most nights half out of his mind with worry that Credence simply won’t come back this time. He’s always there in the morning, curled up with his nose to Graves’ neck, and that’s enough to soothe the vaguer fears.

Apparently even Credence’s normal way of dealing with things like this—writing—won’t work for him. In a normal world, it would be funny when Credence broke six pens in a row and caused every single one to spill gallons of ink all over the room. Now it just leaves Graves worried.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Credence says, casting a wrathful Scouring Charm at a stained panel of wallpaper.

Graves shrugs, keeping his voice light. “Nothing’s wrong. Do you remember the incident with the multiplying needles? Or hell—your garden. Your magic likes making things grow.”

Credence sighs, audibly frustrated, and drops the subject. Graves does not drop his worries. He drags Jacob aside, on the fourth afternoon of their stay, to talk to him. Ask, perhaps, for some advice.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Graves says helplessly. They’re in the kitchen, where they likely won’t be disturbed. “And I don’t know how to help.”

“I’ve got a question,” Jacob says, looking at Graves cautiously. “Has he been, um, have you seen any new scars on him?”

Graves frowns and leans back in the creaky little kitchen chair. “No,” he says slowly. “I haven’t, why?” He studies Jacob’s face for anything, any clue, and gets nothing.

“And your razors?”

“Jacob, why are you asking me about…” Graves stops. His fingers dig into the wood of the tabletop involuntarily. “You’re not suggesting that.”

“Ain’t suggesting,” Jacob says. He shakes his head and folds his arms. “He’s been doing it since China, at least. Heals himself, promised me he was doing it with clean blades.”

“No,” Graves says sharply. “I would know.”

Jacob watches him steadily. “No, you wouldn’t,” he says. “Me and Credence—and I guess Queenie—we’re the only ones who know. He asked me to keep it secret.”

The silence is horrible. Graves feels like he can’t even breathe. “ _Why_?” he asks after a moment and is frustrated to realize that the word is choked off.

“My best guess from talking to him is control,” Jacob says.

How is the man so calm? “Control of _what_?”

“Come on, Graves,” Jacob says impatiently. He leans forward. “The Obscurus. He gets scared or upset, it starts making noise, he figured out that pain makes it stop.”

There are furrows in the wood of the tabletop where Graves’ nails are digging in. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

Jacob sighs. “I don’t know how to make him stop,” he says bluntly. “You wouldn’t know, either, all we’d do would be to upset him worse. So I told him to be safe if he had to or find another way to deal with it, if he could. Guess he went with the first one.”

What Jacob is saying makes a horrible kind of sense. Could Graves have stopped Credence from doing this? Possibly. He’d have had to physically or magically restrain Credence, an impossible task if the Obscurus was roused, and something that Graves wouldn’t even have the will to do in a crisis. Bringing him to an institution where he might have been helped was and is out of the question, with the Obscurus standing in the way.

“And I never told you because I knew you’d do what you’re doing now,” Jacob says.

Graves stares at him for a moment, ready to be furious, but the anger fades quickly. “What did we do wrong, Jacob?” he asks. His voice sounds weary even to his ears.

“A lot,” Jacob says frankly. He shakes his head. “But no matter how much I think about it, I don’t know what else we could have done.”

By the next morning, Jacob must have spoken to Newt. With his brother’s help, Newt press-gangs Credence into working in the Hippogriff stables. The exercise and air seems good for him. And Credence gets along with the beasts quite well, besides. As the days progress, Graves is beginning to have just a little more hope that Credence will be all right.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that this is a punishing update schedule (seriously, why did I choose Monday/Wednesday/Saturday), but there's honestly nothing that frustrates me more as a reader to have updates weeks apart. Also, this fic is over 100,000 words long. We'd be here until next century if I updated weekly.
> 
> Now, let's play Spot The Foreshadowing!

Of everything that’s changing now that they’re in England, Graves finds his favorite change in spending time with his godson. The last time he was around children this young, they were confined to dresses and bonnets, trailing behind their mothers’ skirts. Young Theseus is a much freer kind of child, though he’s not yet two years old. He wanders most of the house and outdoors if an adult can see him. He’s doing his best to be as independent as his parents, though he’s not even two years old.

On the fifth day of the stay, Graves and Tina are sitting outside in the grass, talking. Young Theseus plays with a ball not too far off. Graves has entirely stopped paying attention to the child when, suddenly, the ball bounces into Graves’ leg. He looks up to see Young Theseus determinedly stumbling toward him. Graves gives the ball a push toward him. It bumps into the child and he stops, considering Graves with a comically solemn look.

“Roll it back,” Graves says. “Go on.”

Young Theseus appears to consider for a moment, then pushes the ball to Graves. They go back and forth for a bit, until Young Theseus loses interest in favor of examining an ant nest.

“Just like his Mum,” Tina says with a smile. “Look at him.”

“Not even touching,” Graves comments. Young Theseus is following a line of ants with his fingertip, watching them with intensity that Graves would only associate with an adult. “He really does take after Newt in personality. Though it’s you in the face.”

“Pfft,” Tina says. She waves her hand dismissively and plops her head on Graves’ shoulder. “He’s Scamander all the way down.”

Absently, Graves kisses the top of her head. “I think you’ll be surprised when Young Theseus gets older,” he says, and leaves it at that.

A few days later, they’re only just starting to talk about the details of the trip to Hogsmeade. It’s a subject Graves has been hesitant to broach, but they have to discuss it at some point. Graves, Credence, Tina, and Jacob are discussing options while sitting around the dining room table when Newt comes in with a letter. “Owl post brought this,” he says.

He hands the letter to Graves first. The seal isn’t familiar to Graves, so he ignores it and opens the letter, scanning the lines of elegant handwriting. He can feel his eyebrows climbing and a vague sense of alarm rising up inside him.

“Well?” Credence says after a moment.

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Jacob says.

Graves feels like his eyebrows are going to climb right off his face. “In a strange turn of events, one Albus Dumbledore appears to want to meet with you, Credence,” he says, staring at the signature.

Credence looks confused. “And…?”

“He wants to meet with you at Hogwarts,” Graves says.

He looks up from the letter just in time to see Credence’s jaw drop. “ _What_.”

“That’s odd,” Jacob comments. “Why there?”

Newt slides into the seat next to Tina. “It’s the school year,” Newt says. “Winter holidays haven’t begun yet, which means that the Professor has to work.”

“You’ll have to postpone the visit to Hogsmeade, then,” Tina says.

“No, they won’t,” Newt says. “The village is right down the hill from the castle.” Tina mutters something about how she forgot, thanks for the correction, and Newt squeezes her hand.

Jacob furrows his brow. “That seems like a bit of a crazy coincidence.”

Graves sighs. “Sometimes coincidences just happen, you know.”

With a laugh Credence folds his arms on the table. “Not to us.”

“No, I think Newt is right,” Tina says. “There’s nothing odd about it, it’s the school year.”

Something is itching at the back of Graves’ neck, some reminder that not everything here is as it seems. It’s the familiar feeling of a coincidence that isn’t—the same feeling Graves used to get when Tina got letters from Abernathy. “I don’t like it,” he says. “He doesn’t explain why he wants to meet with Credence.”

“I met him last two years ago,” Credence says. He stares up at the ceiling, visibly considering. “He was evaluating me to see if I was all right to be in the country.”

“And he said you were fine,” Tina chimes in.

The itch is not going away. Graves can feel the tension building in his shoulders. “If Dumbledore thinks Credence is all right, then why summon him to Hogwarts like this?”

“He’s a very kind man,” Newt says quietly. “He might just want to see that Credence is all right, now he’s in the country.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it,” Graves says. “Word’s certainly gotten out to those in high places that Credence is here.”

“They want to make sure I’m all right,” Credence says. He shrugs. “I’d be worried too.”

“That’s fair, but it’s still surveillance,” Tina says. Her expression is a little tight. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“He ain’t alone,” Jacob says. “I have inspectors in the bakery every other week, seems like. The Ministry doesn’t take chances.” Graves is a little startled. Inspectors…Jacob hadn’t said anything about that before.

“If that’s what the Professor is doing, checking on you for the Ministry, then he won’t be looking to get you in any trouble,” Newt says. “He isn’t that kind of man.”

“Yeah,” Jacob says, “but I’m not even sure it’s for the Ministry.”

There’s a very loaded pause.

Graves looks at Newt, whose hackles are visibly up, and then at Jacob, who just looks worried. He knows where this is going, but he himself is undecided on the issue, and keeps his mouth shut. This is something that Jacob and Newt have between themselves.

“Is this about your idea that Dumbledore is working with Grindelwald?” Newt asks.

“Yeah,” Jacob says.

“There’s no way that’s true and you know it,” Newt says.

Tina puts her hand on Newt’s arm. “Newt…”

“The Professor absolutely wouldn’t. He hates Grindelwald more than anyone,” Newt says, flat certainty in his voice. His eyes flick about, gaze darting in the tension. “I know him and I trust him.”

“Yeah, well, the evidence—”

“—doesn’t convince me.”

Graves cuts in before this can get worse. “Either way, I won’t make a judgement until I’ve met the man myself.”

“It’s up to Credence,” Tina interrupts, and turns to Credence. “If you don’t want to go, say the word and we’ll sort it out.”

Credence glances around at all of them. His hesitation is plain in his voice when he says, “I’ll go, of course. I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

There are a hundred reasons Graves can think of that they shouldn’t go. But overriding them all is a desire to confirm Credence’s safety. If Dumbledore can do that, any risk is justified.


	6. Chapter 6

By nightfall, Graves has changed his mind entirely.

“I don’t like it.”

He’s pacing around the room. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and Graves should be sleeping since they’re leaving for Hogwarts early the next morning. Credence is stretched out on the bed, tracing the covers on the bedspread. They’re both dressed for sleep, but neither is really feeling restful.

“Maybe something is finally going right for once,” Credence says. “It’s a long shot, but…”

Graves stops by the window and looks out at the grounds of the Scamander estate. “I’d like to think so,” he says. The next words come out unbidden: “I’d also rather have you safe than dead.”

Credence sits up. The bed creaks. “Percival. Do you really think there’s that much risk?”

“I don’t know. And that’s…” Graves makes himself stop talking. He’s sure Credence will hear the rest of the thought, but he doesn’t need to finish it.

“Do you think Jacob’s right?” Credence asks quietly.

Graves watches the dark estate. “I don’t know what to think or who to believe,” he admits. “I know Queenie has evidence…”

“It was just that time at the bakery,” Credence says. “When Dumbledore just…arrived.”

“And what Queenie told us about Dumbledore being on Grindelwald’s mind,” Graves says.

Credence sighs. “Well, that makes sense. The coincidence of him showing up…I’d like to believe that it was just a badly-timed coincidence, I cause a lot of those.”

“You do that,” Graves says, finally turning away from the window. “I won’t make a firm opinion until I meet Dumbledore face to face myself. And until then, I’m assuming that everything is dangerous.”

Credence stares at the bedspread. “This was supposed to be safe.”

“I know,” Graves says. He drags a hand through his hair, disarranging it. It’s been so perfect the last few days, unusually well-styled. Come to think of it, he’s been dressing better, too; never to be seen unless he looks formal. He hadn’t really considered just how…defensive it felt to do that. Perhaps Graves has been as nervous as Credence is. “And we’re both supposed to be happy.”

“It could be worse.”

“Still. I hate feeling like we’re back where we started.”

“We’re not entirely back there,” Credence says. He smiles faintly. “I mean. I’ve got a real body this time. And you aren’t about to kill yourself.”

Before he can speak, Graves stops himself. He looks at Credence for a long moment, and instead of the man Graves has come to know he sees the figure of the boy on the warehouse floor. It’s been five long years, but the image is imprinted on Graves’ mind.

“I’m not so sure this is that different,” he says.

Credence pauses for a long, long moment. His eyes grow a little distant, and the shadows in the room grow a little thicker. It’s not hard to see that he’s reliving the same moment in time that Graves just did. His recollection, though, seems a little darker.

Graves sits down on the bed. “Hey,” he says. “Still with me?”

“I’m still here,” Credence says. It’s an exchange they’ve had a hundred times or more, by now a familiar ritual. It settles shadows for both of them, reminds them of where they are, that they aren’t alone or trapped in the dark past. But Credence still looks troubled. “I don’t know why I feel like this.”

Honestly, Graves can’t explain it either. But for Credence’s sake he has to try. “I do. You haven’t had to worry about what other people think of you in a long time.”

Credence sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “I shouldn’t care. There are people here, I love them, I shouldn’t feel strange or lonely, but…”

An idea occurs to him and Graves has to speak. “The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend.”

“What’s that from?” Credence asks, looking at him sideways.

Graves smiles. “The Age of Innocence.”

“That again?”

“I find it instructive.”

“Of course you do,” Credence says, ridiculously fond. He nudges Graves with an elbow. “What work of classic literature haven’t you found life lessons in?”

“The life lessons are why they’re classics,” Graves says.

Credence snorts eloquently, and silence descends upon them. It feels comfortable for a few moments, but that changes as the shadows rise again. Credence’s smile fades, too, and Graves’ heart sinks a little more.

“I’m sorry,” Graves says.

“What could you be sorry for?”

Graves hears the heaviness in his voice. “Convincing you to come here.”

“Percival—”

“Credence. Just listen.”

He does, and Graves is at the same time pleased and deeply unhappy. He’s been trying to avoid expressing some of these sentiments, but now he’s really backed himself into a corner. He owes it to Credence to speak up.

“I wasn’t thinking about how such an abrupt change might hurt you. You came straight from hell into total solitude and now the whole world’s knocking at our door. Because I wanted you to be accepted. Because I thought—or, I suppose, didn’t think at all.”

“You wanted to help me,” Credence says, very softly.

 “Want isn’t enough,” Graves says. He’s absolutely sure of that. He’s not going to let Credence be the one at fault here. “I didn’t take your concerns into consideration. I rushed this and I’m sorry for that.” 

Credence nods slightly. “You know I forgive you,” he says. His voice fractures. “I just…God, I just want to go home.”

“Damn it,” Graves says with quiet frustration, “so do I.”

He’s not even sure where to go from here. They can’t go back; that’s impossible and Graves sees it now. Somehow they’ve got to move Credence away from total dependence on Graves, but not too quickly. Yet the momentum of their decision is carrying them forward far too quickly, and now they might actually be in danger. And it won’t end, even if they’re safe. No matter where they go, they’ll be in a wizarding community full of people that, as long as he has Graves, Credence may not want to know.

Graves isn’t sure what time it is when a thought occurs to him. “How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustain itself in a harsh world, I had never taken the time to think out,” he murmurs to himself.

“More of your book?” Credence asks.

Well, yes, but—“How could you tell that?”

Credence cracks a smile again. “You aren’t that poetic.”

Graves wraps his arm around Credence’s shoulders. “You’re right about that. Poetry is your job.”

There’s another brief silence and then Credence speaks again. He sounds so tired. “I’m sorry about…this.”

What is ‘this’? Sadness, overattachment, confusion, potential trouble? It doesn’t matter. Graves kisses Credence on the temple. “We should probably stop apologizing to each other.”

“Why?”

“We’re both dead set on being wrong. Apologies won’t get us anywhere.”

“You’d think we’d have learned, by now,” Credence says.

Graves pulls Credence closer and Credence relaxes, boneless, into the embrace. “Something to work on in the future,” he says.

“The future,” Credence echoes.

The melancholy in his voice is not reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!”—Edith Wharton, _The Age of Innocence_. 
> 
> If you’ll recall, Percival is a bit of a Wharton fanboy. It comes up in "a better mirror" and "the no-maj" in particular.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG chapter today.

“I _hate_ the Floo,” Credence announces, stepping out of the fireplace and brushing ash off his clothes. He’s wearing a lovely set of robes, stylish and well-tailored by Queenie’s hand. Graves appreciates the color, a red so dark it might as well be black, with a tendency to gleam in the right light. They’re appropriate for meeting England’s most celebrated wizard.

Graves, on the other hand, wears something comfortable. A pitch-black suit in the No-Maj style, perfectly tailored. He prefers not to be quite so archaic: American wizards generally do get fashion right, and Graves will be damned if he doesn’t represent that tradition well.

“You’ve said that before,” Graves says. Long experience has taught him how to use the Floo properly; Credence is still fumbling. He’s only used it twice now, and the first time he’d done so badly that he’d fallen out of the wrong fireplace.

“It’s still true,” Credence grumbles as he gets out of the way of Newt, who’s coming through the fireplace next. This small room is for Floo only, and closed to students. Newt is apparently trustworthy enough to bring them from here up to the Headmaster’s office, where they’ll meet with Dumbledore.

With a burst of green flame Newt emerges from the fireplace. Blue coat, same as he’s always been. “Sorry about that the delay,” he gasps, coughing, “accidentally inhaled some ash…”

“It’s all right,” Graves says. He pats Newt on the back and gestures at the door. “Lead on.”

They follow Newt out into the hall. The second he’s through the door, Graves stops to take it all in. Even by the standards of the wizarding world, Hogwarts Castle is truly a marvel.

The vast hall around him goes up and up and up, the ceiling feeling as high as the sky. There’s a double door, sunlight streaming through the crack between. Another double door leads into what looks like a great hall, and then there are the stairs. A grand marble flight leads up to a landing, and beyond that—moving staircases, one after another, shifting in no logical order, around portraits and past gargoyles, all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Where there aren’t windows flooding the marble floors with shifting colored light, there are smokeless torches casting golden light.

Graves turns to see Credence stopped stock-still with his mouth open slightly. He’s absolutely transfixed by everything around them, utterly lost. The sight makes Graves smile. “Credence?”

Credence startles. His gaze jerks to Graves. “Sorry, I just…”

“It takes everybody like that, first time,” Newt says, patting his shoulder. He has a wistful expression as he looks around the hall. Graves doesn’t know the full story of Newt’s expulsion, but he understands how painful it must be to come back in these circumstances. “Still, we shouldn’t keep the Professor waiting.”

They cross the hall to the great staircase. Credence is doing half a job of hiding how he gawks, and Graves really doesn’t have the heart to call Credence’s attention back to the task at hand. There are students around, hurrying to and from classes, and though many of them are quite absorbed in their own affairs, more than a few pause to stare and whisper. Visitors to this school must be rather exceptional, given its relative isolation and the intense desire of most wizards for strict privacy. Graves can’t help a smile at the thought of what those students will say later on about the oddness of visitors to the castle unaccompanied by faculty—especially when one of those visitors wears a No-Maj suit and doesn’t openly carry a wand. Come to think of it, though Graves knows that Newt and Credence think that they stick out the most, in this environment it’s Graves who really looks unusual.

Of course, none of the students, busy with classes, accost them. Up the great stairs they go, and into the moving flights above. Newt navigates the moving staircases with sure feet, as if he’d lived at Hogwarts his whole life. Credence only almost falls off once, because he’s distracted by a painting of a knight on a fat pony charging through his own frame and into the next to accost a coven of witches who might have walked from the pages of _Pride and Prejudice_. Every single painting is moving and many of them are talking, but the knight is the most exceptional occurrence. Graves ignores most of those in favor of watching Credence.

At what is either the second or the third floor—the moving staircases have turned Graves completely around and he’d be hard-pressed to find his way out of here without a map—Newt turns them into a long hallway lined with gargoyles. At the very end is a particularly large gargoyle with eyes that seem to follow them.

“Behind that’s the stair to the Headmaster’s Office,” Newt says, walking right up to the gargoyle and looking it in the eye. “Now, has Headmaster Dippet waived the password?”

The gargoyle is unmoved.

Graves leans against the wall. His nerves are really jangling, but he tries not to let on. He’s turning over risk after risk in his mind now, and it’s just putting him more on edge. Dumbledore might be calling them here on a routine visit, a welcome and quiet check-in. He might be surveilling them for a far more sinister purpose. He might have a cadre of Aurors waiting to arrest Credence on sight. None of these things are beyond possibility.

After several moments of Newt prodding the gargoyle, Credence asks, “Do you not have the password?”

“Professor Dumbledore didn’t give it to me,” Newt mutters. He looks somewhere between embarrassed and irritated and Graves can’t blame him. “But someone would have said that Newt Scamander and guests were coming. The password’s always ridiculous, really, it was ‘nitwit’ once, but might as well be ‘blubber’ or ‘tweak’…”

Slowly, the gargoyle grates to the side, revealing a narrow spiral staircase moving upwards.

“…well, I don’t know what I said, unless it was my name,” Newt says, “but let’s go before that thing changes its mind.”

He steps smartly onto the staircase. Credence and Graves follow, fitting side by side in the narrow staircase. It’s an ascent that’s just short enough to be bearable and just long enough to be very nearly painful. Credence is visibly preoccupied, tension growing with every inch the staircase rises. Graves only hopes that Credence can manage to keep it together.

They emerge from the staircase into yet another room of magic and wonder. Even Graves, who used to spend most of his life in the halls of MACUSA, finds himself impressed by the sight. Portraits line the walls here, too, but these have a certain gravitas that is lacking in many of the other paintings in the castle. They’re plainly the headmasters of Hogwarts, marching down the ages. Cabinets, often glass-fronted, are intermingled with bookshelves around the walls. No ordinary books and trinkets fill them: rather, the contents are all weighty tomes and dusty grimoires, magical objects and enchanted artifacts.

Credence is staring at each one with wide, curious eyes, and Graves is happy to be a guide. “An orrery, to perform divination,” Graves says, pointing to a whirling set of spheres on strange axes. And then, to a set of scales where a single feather weighs down one entire side, “That’s a Scale of Ma’at. Egyptian method of determining guilt. Very rare and very powerful.”

If they had time, Graves would happily answer endless questions about the dozens of objects on display in the room. But they’re interrupted. At the top of a flight of steps, a man appears. He’s dressed in flowing robes of an alarming shade of heliotrope. He has red hair and a beard, both long enough to be tucked into his belt, dashed occasionally with white. He wears round horn-rimmed spectacles through which he looks with piercing blue eyes. He descends to their level, smiling widely. “Welcome to Hogwarts! Well—in the case of Newton, I suppose I should be saying welcome _back_!”

Ah, so _this_ is Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore must be Newt’s favorite person in the world, because right now he’s standing up straighter than Credence has ever seen him. And he’s beaming. “Professor Dumbledore!” Newt says, hurrying forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you!”

“Likewise,” Dumbledore says, shaking Newt’s hand, looking past him at Graves and Credence. “And Mr. Barebone. It’s quite a pleasure to meet you again.”

Credence just nods and shakes Dumbledore’s offered hand. Graves is sure his tension is visible, but he doesn’t particularly care. Still, he maintains civility. “Percival Graves,” he says, shaking hands firmly. “A pleasure, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Being under Dumbledore’s gaze feels like being stuck in the beams of an automobile’s headlights, but Graves is up to the task. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Graves,” Dumbledore says, folding his hands into his wide sleeves. “Newton and Credence speak very highly of you.”

“I’m sure they exaggerate,” Graves says with a self-deprecating smile.

“We absolutely don’t,” Newt says. Credence makes a sound of agreement, lightly brushing Graves’ shoulder with his own.

“Not to cut this conversation too short, but I’m afraid I have to ask what this is about,” Graves says. “I’m sure you didn’t summon us all to Hogwarts just to discuss my personality.”

Dumbledore pauses, studying Graves a little more intensely. “I needed to speak to Mr. Barebone on a matter of some importance.”

“It’s Credence.”

Oh, _damn_. That tone of voice doesn’t make Graves happy. He restrains himself from speaking as Dumbledore turns to Credence. “Hmm?”

Credence folds his arms. “Only Credence. No surname.”

Dumbledore’s smile takes on an odd, possibly wistful edge. “I see,” he says. “In that case, I needed to speak to Credence on a matter of some importance.”

Graves nods. “We guessed,” he says. “How bad—”

“Everything is all right, Percival,” Newt says. “Important doesn’t mean awful, necessarily.”

“It isn’t entirely all right, Newton,” Dumbledore says, with great solemnity. He keeps looking at Credence and Graves is getting progressively more unsettled. “I had originally hoped to meet with you only to welcome you to England and to see that you were well. Unfortunately, as ever, events conspire against my plans.”

“That’s a familiar story,” Credence says dryly.

Dumbledore nods. “So I hear,” he says. “You may wish to sit. This is not an easy conversation.”

There’s enough chairs around the Headmaster’s desk that all four men can sit. There’s some shuffling, and though Graves would rather like to be able to see the whole room there’s no good way to manage it. He ends up situated beside Credence with Newt on Credence’s other side; Dumbledore sits directly behind the desk.

“Are you sure Headmaster Dippet won’t mind us using his office?” Newt asks.

“I assure you that we have the office for the afternoon, if need be,” Dumbledore says. “The Headmaster is in London, meeting with the Minister of Magic.”

Credence perks up a bit. “He is?”

“There are to be new security measures at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore says. “It has taken me more than a year to convince them of the necessity, but after the disappearance of students…”

Newt gives Graves a look from across the desk. It’s a bit I-told-you-so, but it’s well-deserved. One of Jacob’s greatest arguments for Dumbledore’s untrustworthiness has always been access to students at Hogwarts and the disappearance of boys last year. If Dumbledore is the one pushing for better security at the school, it’s implausible that he would be responsible for making students disappear.

“You do need better security,” Graves says, feeling professional pride creeping up on him. “I could break in here with only Jacob Kowalski for help and he’s a No-Maj—”

“It’s _Jacob_ ,” Credence cuts in with a grin. “He’s too smart, he doesn’t count. You might say you could break in here with only Young Theseus for help.”

Newt laughs at that, and Graves does too. For a moment, rescued by Credence’s surprising moment of levity, they actually do manage idle chat. Dumbledore has questions about Young Theseus, and alludes to the illegal flight to England with a twinkle in his eye. It’s perhaps ten minutes of ordinary conversation, and Graves begins to relax. Unfortunately, like all good things, it doesn’t last.

“I hate to bring an end to the pleasantry,” Dumbledore says, “but there is serious business to which we must attend.”

Graves straightens up a bit, leaning forward on the desk. “Talk to us,” he says.

“There have been intimations…hm. How to ask this?” Dumbledore studies Credence and Percival intently. The pause goes on and on, interminable, and Graves is starting to think he should reach for his wand. Credence is nearly vibrating with tension beside him, and even Newt looks wary. Something is deeply, deeply wrong here. “Have you had any contact whatsoever with Gellert Grindelwald?”

Every shadow in the room _explodes_.

In the eruption Graves crashes to the floor, listening to furniture smash and the Obscurus scream with rage. His shoulder burns where he hit the ground, but he ignores the pain. This is worse than anything he actually expected.

“ _What are you saying_!?” Credence demands. His voice reverberates through the room, shaking the walls. “ _You think we’d talk to him_!?”

Graves stands, shoulder to shoulder with Credence, whose eyes are white. He’s hazing out at the edges, blurring into the larger mass of the Obscurus. It’s very gratifying to see right now. “I’d rather see Grindelwald dead than speak one word to him,” Graves snaps.

Dumbledore rises to his feet, appearing unaffected. Graves can _taste_ the tension rolling off of him, though, his readiness to draw his wand and strike the first blow. “That was not an accusation,” he says calmly. “It was merely a question. Grindelwald’s recent movements have given rise to suspicion that he may be searching for weapons—”

 “ _I am not a weapon_ ,” Credence hisses.

Graves reaches out and catches him before he can move. “Explain,” he says to Dumbledore.

“You are not,” Dumbledore says. He doesn’t break Credence’s gaze. Graves can admire that: even he struggles to look into the eyes of the Obscurus. “But if Grindelwald believes that you are, then he will seek to control you by any means necessary.”

“ _Let him try_.”

“Credence…” Newt says cautiously.

Credence fires a cold look over his shoulder and Graves’ skin crawls. He hasn’t seen Credence like this in…years. Maybe ever. “ _Don’t._ ”

The Obscurus surges and rolls around the room, breaking like waves against the wall. None of them are being touched, but the eerie whispers and faint shrieking is entirely audible. It’s incredibly threatening, even when Graves is fairly sure Credence wouldn’t hurt him.

It doesn’t feel as if there’s time to calm Credence down. There are other questions that have to be asked. “Is he looking for us?” Graves demands. “Does he know where we are?”

“It is unlikely that he is aware of your exact whereabouts,” Dumbledore says. “In breaking your seclusion, however, it will be much easier for Grindelwald to seek you out if he so desired. I believe he does desire this, as do others within the Ministry of Magic.”

Graves feels very still beside Credence, who’s practically ripping himself open at the seams. Graves might not have his wand out, but that doesn’t particularly bother him. “Who are these ‘others’?” he asks.

“Several who sit on the Wizengamot. Headmaster Dippet. A great many of our liaisons to other states. The Head of the Auror Office—you may know him, Mr. Graves?”

“Sebastian Longbottom,” Graves says thoughtfully. They’d crossed paths, of course, in the course of their work. Longbottom is a good man, strong and clever wizard, who never shied away from a challenge. He always knows more than he lets on, and Graves trusts him. “Good Auror. If he thinks Grindelwald is looking for us, I don’t doubt that he has good reason.”

“As you see, I did not wait with Aurors to arrest you,” Dumbledore says. His serenity is dissonant in the middle of the swirling storm of the Obscurus.

Graves narrows his eyes. “No, you didn’t,” he says. “Are these people who suspect Grindelwald is looking for us our allies?”

Dumbledore spreads his hands. “As far as I am aware,” he says. “They would not speak to me if they had plans against you, or plans for Grindelwald.”

“What about the Minister?” Newt asks, head cocked.

Dumbledore very nearly scowls. “Minister Fawley,” he says deliberately, “does not perceive Grindelwald to be a severe threat to British wizards.”

Newt makes a sound of indignation. “He ought to pay less attention to society balls and more to what Grindelwald is doing to the wizarding world!”

“I do not disagree,” Dumbledore says. “But, because of his decisions, our concerns can only be informally presented.”

“No one knows we’re here, do they?” Graves asks.

Dumbledore shakes his head. “Only Headmaster Dippet and I are aware of your presence in Hogwarts Castle. Others will believe that you have come here only to visit Hogsmeade.”

“So you nearly got everyone in this castle killed just to warn us about Grindelwald’s attention, something you could have easily done at the Scamander estate, without risking attention from the Ministry or from Grindelwald’s supporters,” Graves says. He claps a hand to his forehead. “Do you understand the concept of _tactical thinking_?”

Newt’s eyes are round as teacups. “Percival! The Professor is a great wizard!”

“Even great wizards can make mistakes,” Dumbledore says mildly. There’s a hint of anger in the way he looks at Graves, though. “And only the truly foolish refuse to heed criticism.”

“ _What do you want from me?_ ” Credence asks. The echo of his voice is eerie, unsettling.

“To protect you,” Dumbledore says plainly. “I wish to offer you better protections against Grindelwald. A defensible position, which he may not so easily uncover.”

Graves feels like he’s been hit with a Stunning Spell. “You want to bring Credence into custody.”

Credence recoils and the Obscurus shrieks. Dumbledore’s eyes flash a little. “I wish to put Credence into a better position than he currently occupies,” Dumbledore says.

“And that position comes with how many strings attached?” Graves asks.

Newt looks between Graves and Dumbledore. “Professor…what would you expect if Credence did listen to you?” he asks.

“I would hope he would consent to assist in study of the nature of the Obscurus,” Dumbledore says. He looks at Credence. “Your assistance would be invaluable, and under the protection of—”

“The same authority who let this happen?” Graves cuts in, gesturing around at the Obscurus. He folds his arms. “You want Credence to go under your _protection_ so you can use him.”

“‘Use’ is a strong word,” Dumbledore says.

“ _It’s the right word_ ,” Credence says.

Graves doesn’t move, despite the rising roar of the Obscurus. “If you go on like this you’ll only get people hurt,” he says, looking Dumbledore in the eye.

“I think threats are unnecessary and beneath you, Mr. Graves.”

“Those aren’t threats,” Graves says. “You’d know if they were. I don’t play word games. That’s a warning. We aren’t safe men.”

“And that,” Dumbledore says, “is exactly another reason you should not be left without assistance. You need someone to guide you, to help you.”

In two steps Credence is close enough to Dumbledore to break his neck. “ _You should know_ ,” he says, very softly, leaning in, “ _that I’d rather kill than have someone ‘help’ me again. And that is a threat_.”

Everyone freezes. Graves has no idea what to do. Credence has done a lot of things—but never threatened to outright murder someone. The Obscurus is frighteningly still, poised to strike; Newt looks ready for combat. Dumbledore is so still it might be mistaken for serenity, the only cue that things might go wrong the tightness at his eyes.

Looking at Credence, his power and rage on open display, Graves has to wonder if Credence plans to just pull the castle down around them. If he does…is Graves’ word enough to stop him?

“Credence,” Graves finally says.

And that, for now, does seem to be enough. Credence looks at him, and after a moment takes a few steps back to stand by his side. The Obscurus fades, reeled back inside Credence. The tension in the room becomes a little less palpable, when Credence isn’t chewing at the walls. Graves pulls Credence in a bit, holding his hand tightly. Credence barely relaxes, but it’s enough for now.

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” Credence says, with a crooked smile.

“I would not ask for an insincere apology,” Dumbledore says.

There’s a beat of silence before Graves shakes himself and says, “Thanks for the warning about Grindelwald, at least.”

“I should hope you heed it,” Dumbledore says.

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Graves says. “If the only thing you wanted from us was to give us that warning—”

Dumbledore smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It was. I had hoped to speak at length about ways to keep you safe, but I see that neither of you wish to linger here.”

“No,” Credence says. “We don’t.”

“In that case, I will bid you a good day,” Dumbledore says, “and wish you well in your quest for a house in Hogsmeade.”

“A wish gratefully accepted,” Graves says. “We need all the luck we can get.”

Dumbledore smiles. “Were I a better potioneer, I might offer a drop or two of Felix Felicis,” he says. “As it is, the only luck I can give you is a place to find lunch. I recommend the Three Broomsticks.”

“We’ll consider that,” Graves says. He’s already nudging Credence toward the door.

“Newton, if you would not mind remaining a while?”

Newt looks worriedly at Graves and Credence. Graves nods—it’s fine with him, and likely Credence needs to be away from people right now. Newt turns back to Dumbledore. “Of course, Professor.”

Credence’s eyes are still white, and he’s uncannily quiet. These aren’t particularly good signs. “We can find our own way out, if you trust us to wander the castle alone,” Graves says.

“If Newton trusts you, then I trust you,” Dumbledore says. That’s far more generosity than they really deserve right now. If Graves were in Dumbledore’s place, he would have already summoned Aurors to deal with them both.  

“Well, we’re lucky that Newt thinks kindly of us,” Graves says. He pauses a moment. Without Newt, they’ll definitely get lost on the sprawling grounds of the castle. “If you’d be so kind—how do we get to Hogsmeade?”

“Take the path straight down the hill,” Dumbledore says. He folds his hands inside his wide sleeves. “It winds a bit, but you’ll arrive there in good time.”

“I’ll join you in a little while,” Newt says.

They’re halfway to the door when Dumbledore says, “If I may make one final recommendation—”

“What is it?” Credence asks, looking over his shoulder.

“If Hogsmeade is not to your liking,” Dumbledore says, “I have found the town of Godric’s Hollow to be quite a pleasant community.”

“We’ll consider that, too,” Graves says. “Good day, Mr. Dumbledore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the knight on a fat pony is Sir Cadogan. 
> 
> Not even kidding about the octagonal eyeglasses. They weren't extremely popular, but certainly had a market with...eccentric people. Which Dumbledore is. 
> 
> Confession: my dear beta is irked with me for having the meeting in the Headmaster’s office without the Headmaster present. When I said, “it’s because it’s Dumbledore,” her response was, “it’s a shitty reason, but it’s canon.” Ergo, the office, sans the Headmaster.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for your Monday morning. :)

Graves doesn’t disturb Credence’s silence as they leave the castle. He can imagine just how angry Credence is, and Graves shares a lot of that. He’s angry for Credence, and not just because of Dumbledore’s attempt to control Credence. Walking through this school, seeing these children happy and living in the world that’s their birthright, is a forcible reminder of just what Credence has lost.

The sun is bright and fairly warm, despite the general chill of the day. They walk down the path, winding across the wide lawn and around the lake, toward the hill that presumably slopes all the way down to Hogsmeade. Forty yards away from the castle, Graves finally speaks.

“You know that I’m not a particular fan of threatening murder,” he says, “but I would watch you threaten Dumbledore again in a heartbeat.”

Credence laughs, obviously startled. “Percival, you can’t just say things like that!”

“I can and I will,” Graves says. He sticks his hands in his pockets. His thoughts are beginning to coalesce into something resembling an idea, and he doesn’t like it. “I have no idea what that meeting was about except provoking you.”

“What?”

Graves watches the branches of a Whomping Willow move threateningly as a small group of students throws rocks at it from a distance, giggling. “He was trying to provoke you into losing your temper. Obviously, it worked.”

Credence scowls. “Why?”

“I don’t entirely know, but I one thing I do believe. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not working for Grindelwald,” Graves says.

“Oh?” Credence asks, looking at Graves sideways.

Graves shrugs. “I know Sebastian Longbottom. Man’s one of the best at the job of being an Auror. If Dumbledore’s surrounded by people like him and they’re all working together? Someone would have to notice if something wasn’t right.”

“Then…oh, damn, are they all the kind of people who’d want to use me…?”

Credence sounds utterly hopeless and Graves feels terrible about his blunt honesty. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

The landscape, quite beautiful, is offensively pleasant for Graves’ mood. He knows what those people would do. Once upon a time, he would have done the same. He remembers thinking of the Obscurus as a weapon, understanding why Grindelwald wanted it, even believing he could be redeemed by bringing such a power to MACUSA. Of course that was all before he met Credence, but Graves still understands. Credence’s power is a great temptation to men whose job it is to prepare for war.

For a few minutes, they walk in silence. There are trees around, as they come to a bridge over a ravine. A river rushes by below, and Credence pauses to look over the rail. Graves stops beside him. In the summer Graves is sure that the ravine would be lush with greenery, but at the moment it’s rather bare. Still, the river almost sounds cheerful as it courses around the huge boulders that project into the water.

“Like a scene from a fairy tale,” Credence says, half to himself.

“I agree,” Graves says, ignoring the view. “A story complete with a handsome prince.”

Credence looks at him and his cheeks redden. He smiles. “You need to stop with the bad poetry.”

Graves reaches out and covers Credence’s hand where it rests on the rail. “I’m not stopping if it gets you to smile.”

“Sorry,” Credence mutters, looking away.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I just hate to see you so angry.”

Credence stares down at the rushing water. “It’s not just Dumbledore.”

Here it is. Graves waits for Credence to decide what to say. He can guess, of course, but it’s up to Credence to explain.

“I keep asking myself…why not me? Why all those children, and not me? None of them will ever have to do what I’ve done, and God, I couldn’t be happier for them, but…why wasn’t it me?”

“Because the wizarding world failed you,” Graves says, holding Credence’s hand tighter on the rail. “It’s MACUSA’s fault, not yours. Never yours.”

“Let’s get down to Hogsmeade,” Credence says, after a long moment’s pause.

It’s perhaps two and a half miles on the winding path down to Hogsmeade, through heavy forest full of whispers and eyes winking just beyond sight. Abruptly, the dirt path becomes a cobblestone road, and the trees break in favor of quaint houses.

The village is busy and well-worn; the air of recent antiquity hangs pleasantly heavy over the whole place. The houses lean against each other cozily. There are children playing in the street, adults doing business, even a few house-elves on their errands. It’s—nice. Many people stare at Credence and Graves as they pass.

There’s laundry doing itself in front of a couple of the houses, and the smoke from one chimney is coming up in multicolored rings, and the post office has owls perched on the roof. Though this isn’t the first wizarding community Credence has ever seen, Graves thinks it might be the most flamboyant.

Though Credence is a little twitchy, Graves is consumed by examining the houses in as minute detail as can be managed when they aren’t stopping. “Lucky we managed to get my part of the inheritance back,” he mutters, pausing to assess one particularly charming building. “These will _not_ be inexpensive.”

“I’m not even sure we should worry about that,” Credence says. “There are people living in every house. We may not even be able to buy one.”

“Well,” Graves says, as they enter the town square, which is ringed by places of business, “it’s possible we may not want to live here anyway.”

“Why not?” Credence asks, looking around.

Graves makes a face. “Too close to Dumbledore for my taste.”

Credence laughs at that, and then stops, staring across the square. “Is that _Queenie_?”

“What?” Graves looks where Credence points and is confounded. “What’s she doing here?”

It really is Queenie, in a conservative dress of navy blue, standing outside the door of a building with a sign of three broomsticks. She turns as Credence and Graves cross the square and waves. “We thought you’d never get here!”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Graves repeats.

Queenie looks at both of them for a moment. Graves gets the sense that she’s rummaging through their heads, the back of his skull itching. He lets her go, because there’s no point in hiding. She takes their free hands in hers. “What we always do, honey,” she says. “Taking care of you.”

She pulls them both into the Three Broomsticks. It’s cozy, pleasant, with many witches and wizards present. Queenie plasters herself to Credence’s side, talking a mile a minute. “We just had to come, you know, because we’re all about the nosiest people on Earth. And we couldn’t just let you two buy a house all by yourselves—I think Tina’s right, you’d both forget about asking about mold in the walls and whether or not the roof is going to fall in—so of course we’re here.”

“Did you bring the entirety of Shropshire?” Graves inquires.

“Oh, you—!” Queenie smacks Graves playfully on the arm. “No, just me and Tina and Jacob. And both Theseuses.”

Credence’s jaw drops. “You brought _Theseus_?”

“Well, we couldn’t just leave the baby behind!” Queenie’s eyes sparkle with fun, and Graves laughs for the first time that day.

They’ve taken a table in the corner, out of the way. It’s a shock to the senses, seeing them all here. Tina with a glass of butterbeer in her hand, Theseus with his small namesake on his lap, and Jacob—

“Are you wearing _robes_?” Credence asks inanely.

“Yep!” Jacob grins and brushes the wide lapel of the stylish robe ostentatiously. He leans in, conspiratorial, as Credence sits down beside him. “We ain’t exactly telling everyone I’m a Muggle. If they ask, I’m Queenie’s Squib husband.”

Graves pinches the bridge of his nose. “The lengths you all went to…”

“Were completely justified,” Tina says firmly. She sets her glass down on the table with a clunk. “I knew you two would be in a state and it would have been wrong to just abandon you.”

“We didn’t ask you to come,” Credence says.

Theseus grins. “I refuse to be left out of any further adventures!”

“Is this an imposition?” Jacob asks.

Credence shares a glance with Graves. “No,” Graves says, for both of them. “Honestly, after that little visit to Hogwarts…I think we can both say we’re happy to have you here.”


	9. Chapter 9

Explanations take time, and by the end of them it looks like Jacob and Tina are ready to go up to the castle to give Dumbledore a piece of their minds. Theseus stalls them with lunch, and by the time they have food on the table, Graves is a great deal less angry. Everything that happened up at the castle is still weighing on him, and he can tell it’s weighing on Credence, but for now things are all right.

Even Newt’s arrival is fine, because anything they would have discussed about what happened with Dumbledore is sidetracked by Young Theseus scrambling down and running across the room demanding his Mum. “Up, up!” he says, and long-sufferingly Newt obliges. He sits down by Tina, and Queenie distracts again by asking Newt about the rumors of the giant squid living in the lake. And that’s a lecture that takes half an hour.

“—and that’s why experimentation on non-magical creatures is banned,” Newt finishes, breathless. “Does that answer your question, Queenie?”

“That answers questions I didn’t even know I had,” Queenie says.

“You should know better than to ask Newt if you don’t want a Care of Magical Creatures dissertation,” Theseus puts in.

Graves takes a sip of butterbeer. “You know, I almost failed Care of Magical Creatures at Ilvermorny,” he says.

“Knowing you, what you really mean is that you got slightly below top marks,” Tina says. She gives him a playfully hard look across the table. “I thought about your whole personal neurosis about Transfiguration—”

Theseus cuts in. “His what now?”

“I can’t do Transfiguration,” Graves says.

“Graves! You _can’t_ be that bad,” Tina says. “You can’t even get into the Auror program without nearly perfect scores!”

“There is a lot to be said for cramming for a test.”

Theseus grins broadly. “That’s how half the Aurors in the Ministry pass. That, gallons of Self-Correcting Ink, and an awful lot of Auto-Answer Quills.”

“Is that why your Aurors are all terrible at actual law enforcement?” Jacob asks.

“No,” Graves says. “It’s because they’re hampered by people who won’t let them do their jobs.”

Tina scowls. “You’re not wrong about that. Most of the Senate’s legislation is practically _designed_ to take our—er, their—teeth out.”

Theseus sighs. “The struggle of the modern world,” he says wistfully. “We wish we didn’t need Aurors, but we need them to be more effective than ever. We all agree with Grindelwald on everything but how much he wants to kill Muggles.”

“Seems like it was easier when we were just kids,” Queenie says, looking at Young Theseus.

“It wasn’t,” Credence says. It’s like dropping ink into a glass of water, the way that silence spreads out to blanket the table. He looks around at all of them. “Maybe—maybe it was for you. But not for me. Not for my sisters. Or any of the kids like us. It was always this complicated and messy and ugly. Hell, I think it’s better now. At least I can fight back.”

Graves wonders how much Theseus really knows about all this, because the man looks confused and perhaps worried. Queenie discreetly dabs at her eyes with Jacob’s handkerchief. Newt is holding his son quite tightly, to which Young Theseus is taking offense, trying to squirm free. Tina looks fierce, as if she’d go back in time and rescue Credence right now if she could.

“I know what you mean,” Jacob says. He shrugs when all eyes turn to him. “My grandparents were Catholic immigrants. Came over to America from Poland because there wasn’t work and everyone was starving. Could hardly read, couldn’t write. They used to tell us about Ellis Island and how incredible it was to think of a new life in America.”

Queenie abruptly reaches out and grabs hold of his hand. She doesn’t say a word, but she’s crying hard now, fast and silent.

Jacob gives her a look before continuing. Whatever he’s thinking must be sweet, because Queenie returns a watery smile. “We lived in tenement housing when I was a kid. No light, no air. I used to sleep on the fire escape just so I could breathe at night. Work was about as bad for everyone. My dad, my mother, and my grandfather all did factory work, even after we finally moved into a place of our own.”

Credence speaks softly. “We used to do ministry in the tenements when I was very young,” he says. “New York wasn’t kind to anyone it forgot.”

“No kidding,” Jacob says. “My mother lost fingers in a factory accident. Dad almost got killed a couple of times. Hell, we knew a couple of the girls who died in the Triangle Factory Fire. All I’m saying is that life’s never been easy. You might just be noticing it more now.”

“We’ve all seen too damn much to think it was ever easy,” Graves says. “The world isn’t so simple. It never has been.”

“Well,” Newt says quietly, “at least we’ve all got each other.”

Tina finishes off her butterbeer in one long drink. “No other crew I’d rather run halfway around the world with.”

“Did we really get halfway around the world?” Credence asks. “I’ve never looked at a map.”

“We practically circumnavigated the _globe_ ,” Tina says. She waves a hand in a vague circle, as if drawing the equator in midair. “From New York all the way across the country to the Pacific, across the Pacific, over the entirety of Asia, and to here where we sit in the Three Broomsticks in Scotland—if we just crossed the Atlantic again we’d be back where we began!”

“Not quite where we began,” Graves says quietly, thinking about that whole wild journey. Silently, Credence slides an arm over Graves’ shoulders, as if he knows what Graves is thinking.

Theseus jumps in at that point. “Should I book passage for us back to America?”

“No,” Jacob and Queenie chorus. They look at each other and laugh.

“You’d be going all by yourself,” Newt says. “The rest of us would be arrested on sight.”

Credence makes a face at him. “Has that _ever_ stopped you before?”

Newt smiles at the tabletop. “No,” he says.

“And it hasn’t exactly stopped us going back to America at all,” Tina points out. “There was that whole mess in Arizona, remember. And _Alaska_!”

“Do you think that we could go to Texas?” Theseus asks with interest. “I’ve never been.”

“No. I almost got my head blown off with a cannon last time I was there,” Graves says.

“Texas is _not_ safe, I don’t know how Alvarez does it!” Tina says.

Graves’ eyebrows about fly off his face. “Rosa Alvarez? You mean she’s still there?”

Tina nods. “She’s Regional Director now, if President Grimsditch didn’t fire her.”

“Well, America is really in good hands. I feel less terrible about abandoning everyone,” Graves says. He knocks back the end of his butterbeer and sets the glass down. That’s enough for tonight.

“And…who’s Alvarez?” Jacob asks.

“One of the best Aurors I’ve ever worked with,” Graves says. And he launches into the story of the cannon case in Texas, a story that Credence has heard before and never fails to mesmerize him. It’s good to hear such a familiar story. Theseus has never heard it before and reacts with the appropriate amount of awe and amusement. For his part, Young Theseus is delighted when Tina starts magically adding sound effects and Queenie reads Graves’ mind to deliver the female Aurors’ lines.

Newt coaxes Theseus into recounting his heroics on the Western Front. There are a few awkward looks shared between Jacob and Theseus before they finally explain that there’s every reason to believe that he and Theseus may have actually met before, on the front lines. They haven’t tried to remove the Obliviation yet, though. Graves offers, but Jacob shakes his head. “Maybe later,” he says, and diverts the conversation to whether or not they’ll be staying overnight in Hogsmeade, and if so, where.

There’s an inn, of course, and they do end up taking rooms there. Between the whole party—Jacob and Queenie, Credence and Graves, and Theseus—it’s three rooms. Newt, Tina, and Young Theseus are of course staying in the suitcase. “Which we’re putting in with Graves and Credence,” Tina says, passing it to Credence, “because if we have to hand Theseus off to someone in the middle of the night, it ought to be someone who hasn’t suffered yet.”

“Does that happen often?” Graves asks, looking the small family over. Young Theseus is asleep on Tina’s shoulder as she rocks him slightly, and Newt is very carefully preening the child’s dark, curly hair, pulling out twigs and bits of fluff he’s picked up over the course of the day.

“Only when Newt’s got something to take care of and needs my help,” Tina says. “We’ve asked Dougal to take care of him in the past, but—”

“—it’s always better to have a parent of the child’s own species, if possible. And right now Theseus has plenty of people to stand in,” Newt says. He looks at Credence and Graves and nods. Apparently, the incident at the castle has been understood and forgiven. “I trust you to be a good parental substitute.”

As they all go their respective ways, Graves makes sure to take a minute and help Newt with the creatures. This really does feel right and good. Even if Newt’s older brother is there, hovering around the edges like a confused and noisy thundercloud, even though it’s been years since the day they stepped into that suitcase and ran out of New York, they’re still family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the subject of Polish immigration to the United States: not all immigrants from Poland in the late 1800s were Jewish. Many were, in fact, Roman Catholic, and it's to this particular group that I headcanon Jacob belongs. 
> 
> Discrimination has looked different in different periods of history; during and before the time of this story, immigrants from Poland were looked at much the same way that certain sectors of America look at refugees from Latin America, or certain sectors of Europe look at refugees from the Middle East. Although religion was a factor and played a role, a large part of it was simply that these people were foreigners. This would of course change as Polish immigrants integrated into American society, but for right now in this story...that's the history I've chosen to use.
> 
> On the subject of tenement housing: I used a primary source document, one of reporter Nellie Bly’s articles on time spent in tenement houses, specifically [In the Biggest New York Tenement](http://www.nellieblyonline.com/herwriting). Tenement housing was pretty much as Jacob described it...utterly and completely awful. 
> 
> The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 was a horrible event, and a landmark in bringing labor safety and unionization to the fore in American minds. The Remember the Triangle Fire Coalition describes it: 
> 
> "The Triangle Waist Company was located one block east of Washington Square Park. There were over 500 employees – most were young women, most were recent immigrants. On March 25, 1911, a fire broke out on the 8th floor. Workers ran to the fire escape. It collapsed, dropping them to their deaths. On the 9th floor a critical exit was locked. People on the street watched as the workers began to jump out the windows. Fire trucks arrived but their ladders only reached the 6th floor. The elevators ran as long as they could as workers pressed into the cars; some tumbled down the elevator shaft.
> 
> In the end 146 people died."
> 
> Wow. Depressing footnote, much?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. Ten chapters in...already? It feels like this is moving so fast and yet there's so much story ground yet to cover!

As the sun sets over Hogsmeade, Graves and Credence take a walk. Graves is of the opinion that they need to actually decide whether or not they want to live here before they go further, and Credence agrees wholeheartedly. It’s not a big village by any measure, and when there are few people outside it’s very quiet. No cars, no city sounds. Just the distant furtive noises of the Forbidden Forest that apparently sprawls for acres and acres around much of Hogwarts.

“You know,” Credence says, when they’ve made a full circuit of the village, “I’m not so sure that you and I would fit in here.”

Graves looks around at the calm houses. Through curtains in lit windows, he can see the silhouettes of people. Families. Friends. People who’ve known each other for years. People who might not welcome two men with strange and terrible pasts into their lives. It’s not that Graves doesn’t like the calm or think it to be a pleasant place to live, but… “I know what you mean,” he says. “We don’t belong.”

They’ve come to the edge of the village, the one further from the castle. No road leads into the wall of trees that greets them, and perhaps that’s a lucky thing. It’s the kind of forest that really seems like it has nasty things lurking in its depths. Which means that it’s probably the place Newt spent most of his school years.

“Then where do we go next?” Credence asks. He leans against a tree, looking back at the village.

Graves rubs his forehead. “I hate to say it, but Dumbledore did suggest Godric’s Hollow.”

Credence scowls. “I don’t like it. He’d know where we are.”

“He knows that anyway,” Graves points out. “Newt told him after we left.”

“Newt needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

There’s a vicious cast to Credence’s face that makes Graves’ head hurt. “I don’t think he’s wrong in talking to Dumbledore,” Graves says. The last thing they need is for Credence to blame Newt for all of this. “The man’s his mentor. They’ve got a history. Besides, it takes forever for Newt to trust _anybody_. If he thinks Dumbledore is all right—”

“I get it,” Credence says. He stares up at the sky with a scowl. “I hate it, but I do. Newt’s not at fault here. I don’t know that anyone _is_.”

Graves smiles a cynically cheerful smile. “We could always blame Grindelwald. It’s a nice blanket statement, covers just about everything bad.”

“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t blame Grindelwald for everything,” Credence says. He glances at Graves. “There’s some things I should thank him for.”

Graves takes Credence’s hand and kisses the back of it. “I’d have to thank him too,” he says. “I’d rather not, though. I’d like to believe that even without all the things we’ve seen, we’d have found each other in the end.”

He gets a smile for that, a little subdued, a little sad. “Me too,” Credence says. His hand caresses Graves’ cheek for a moment. “I’m sorry for how I’ve acted, these last days. I don’t know what’s wrong with me right now.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Graves says. “It’s just been a lot to handle.”

Credence bites his lip. “It’s getting stronger,” he says softly. “The Obscurus, I mean—it’s getting bigger again. Angrier. Whenever I’m even a little upset, I can hear it.”

“Hear it?”

“Crying,” Credence says. His voice is bare of any subterfuge. “Angry. It wants me to hurt people, anyone who threatens me. Not you, but.”

He stops talking, and a chill crawls up Graves’ spine. “But?”

Credence shakes his head. His hand trembles a little. “Nothing,” he says. “Let’s go back to the Three Broomsticks. I don’t think this is the place for us, Percival.”

In the moonlight, there’s something almost wrong with Credence’s eyes. That chill is still there, and as they walk back to the inn, it doesn’t leave. When they’re in their room and Credence is pulling off Graves’ clothes, it feels desperate. Afraid.

Something is wrong.

 

***

 

“Of course we’ll go to Godric’s Hollow with you,” Tina says the next morning when Graves broaches the subject over breakfast. She nudges a bowl of oatmeal closer to Young Theseus, who ignores it in favor of the sticks in his hands. He appears to be pretending that they’re Bowtruckles, making noises that approximate their chattering language. “I can only speak to Newt and I, but we’re both ready to go.”

“We are,” Newt confirms. He and Graves had spent the earlier part of the morning doing dental work on the Mongolian Death Worm again. Despite his complaints, Graves had dutifully gone along anyway, even though his last encounter with the beast had ended with acid in his face.

“I think Queenie and I can go too,” Jacob says. “Bakery’s doing just fine, so we’ve got time to go. Unless you mind, sweetheart?”

Queenie nods. “I’d just love to see more of wizarding Britain. It’s all so _quaint_. Of course we’ll come along!”

There’s an expectant pause. All eyes turn to Theseus, who’s preoccupied with his food.

“Well?” Credence says, after a moment.

Theseus looks up at him. “I thought it was a given,” he says with a grin. “I don’t plan to let any of you out of my sight until I absolutely have to. Sure as anything, you’ll go somewhere without me and have a ripping adventure and I’ll get left out.”

Credence rolls his eyes. “It’s not a ‘ripping adventure’ when somebody _actually gets ripped open_.”

“Don’t try to convince him of that,” Tina advises. “You know it runs in the family. Newt about got split open by a Panoptes and wouldn’t stop talking about how interesting it was while I was _stitching him back together_.”

“A Panoptes?”

Tina shudders. “A monster with what seems like a hundred eyes. You can ask Newt for the exact number, I don’t know it. We were in caves in the Alps and this thing just came out of _nowhere_. Its eyes are apparently used in Divination magic sometimes, but it wasn’t like we stayed to collect them!”

Jacob looks like he’s getting a headache. “Tell me you didn’t have young Theseus with you.”

“Not technically,” Tina says, looking off into the middle distance airily.

“Tina!” Queenie gasps. “You were _expecting_!?”

Graves thinks his jaw will hit the table. “ _What_!?”

Tina gives them all the guiltiest smile in history. “A magizoologist’s job is never done?”

“Look, any woman with the guts to marry my brother has to be the kind of person willing to take risks while in a delicate condition,” Theseus says.

“Being in a family way is no time to go hunting for hundred-eyed monsters!” Jacob objects.

“How has my godson _survived_ this long?” Graves asks. “I understand letting children learn by taking risks, but this is _ridiculous_ , Tina!”

A flick of Tina’s wand sends a flock of spoons hurtling across the table. Graves ducks, nearly falling out of his chair, the spoons clattering against the wall behind him. Young Theseus laughs with delight. Everyone else in the room looks up, some joining Young Theseus in laughing, but Tina ignores them. “You absolutely can’t tell me that you and Credence wouldn’t be dragging your children into even worse adventures!”

“All right, I concede that,” Graves says, sitting upright again.

Credence shrugs. “I guess living with me on a daily basis is plenty of danger.”

Tina looks positively smug. “Good.”

“What do you mean, living with you is plenty of danger…?” Theseus asks, looking at Credence with confusion and an Auror’s wariness written all over his face.

There’s a lengthy pause. Has Theseus really not been told about what Credence is, about the kind of risk he presents? Well…it’s in Newt’s character to not say too much about things like this, and Tina is taciturn about such information. Graves isn’t sure how they’ve all managed to dance around the word “Obscurial” for so long, but he’s surprised this didn’t break before now. The whole fantastic and terrible story of their long friendship is predicated on Credence being a living, breathing weapon, on the collective decision to help him by any means necessary.

Deliberately casual, Credence tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “Hasn’t Newt told you?” he asks, looking Theseus in the face. “I’m the oldest living Obscurial on the planet. I’m the one who almost destroyed New York in nineteen twenty-six. Makes me a little less than safe to live with.”

Though there’s sound all through the rest of the room, the bustle of morning in the inn, there is flat silence at their table. Even Young Theseus stops playing and looks around at the adults, confused. In the silence, Graves waits. Credence’s shadow is wavering, just a little, but not too much. Theseus’ face is expressionless: he’s absolutely unreadable. Out of the corner of his eye, Graves can see Jacob leaning forward, ready to intervene. Queenie is dead silent, which is frightening on its own. Tina and Newt have closed ranks.

Finally Theseus shakes his head. He sits back with a small smile. “That fills a lot of holes in that story Newt told,” he says. “I understand a bit better, I think. Well. Congratulations on surviving, and may I toast to your continued health.” He raises his glass in ironic salute and takes a long drink.

“You know what an Obscurial is?”

“Vaguely,” Theseus says. “I’ve picked up enough to know that you being alive is practically a miracle.”

Credence nods curtly. “Your brother plays a significant part in all of that.”

“Newt has a gift for the dangerous.”

Jacob, still wary, asks, “Does this change your mind about following us around?”

Theseus cocks a hell-raising grin at them all. “Oh, no,” he says. “It makes me a damn sight more determined to stick around. If Credence is this interesting, I suspect grand things in the offing.”

As they all pack up and prepare to travel to Godric’s Hollow, Graves considers that. He hopes there are no “grand things” any time soon—he just wants to get somewhere quiet and safe with Credence and have some time to work out this new world. Maybe they’ll be lucky. Maybe the world will forget about Credence and leave him alone, for once. Maybe things _can_ be simple and uncomplicated.

Graves prays that those maybes will become certainties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regard to the “Panoptes,” I decided it was best not to play around with Wizards of the Coast product identity, so imagine any hundred-eyed beastie in the style of Argus from Greek myth in place of the one I was thinking about using. You know the one. Behold it in the Monster Manual.
> 
> The term “pregnant” was taboo until the 1950s. I packed that whole conversation with as many euphemisms as I could find, just for fun. Count them!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all are killing me. Half of you are all “Dumbledore Did Nothing Wrong” and the other half are all “Dumbledore Is Paranoia Fuel By Existing.” I am SO VASTLY ENTERTAINED BY THIS. Exactly three people in the universe truly know how this turns out: me, my beta reader, and my girlfriend. 
> 
> I am so excited. :3

They can’t Apparate directly into the village. Rather, they have to Floo in. There are other wizarding families here, of course; but since it isn’t a purely magical community there are strictures that must be followed. The Scamanders have friends in the village, so one Fire-Call from Theseus later they’ve got a fireplace ready for their arrival.

“Have I mentioned how much I abhor the Floo?” Credence asks conversationally, spitting out ash and wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robes.

“A time or two,” Graves says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Theseus handles the introductions to the family—the Perkinses—with aplomb, telling them that Graves and Credence are looking for a place to live. “New to Britain, you know,” he says, “very American, but the kind of men who’ll really fit in around here.”

“We’re quiet sorts in Godric’s Hollow,” Edwena Perkins tells Credence. “Keep to ourselves.”

“That sounds perfect,” Credence says fervently.

Godric’s Hollow is a small, tidy hamlet. There are more No-Majs than wizarding families, but still no one pays them much mind. Tina has opinions about every house they pass. Theseus, who apparently moves every other year because he can’t keep his feet in one place, joins in. Graves can see that he and Theseus are going to be thick as thieves. The man has an easy smile and good humor that makes Graves laugh. Already they’re speaking familiarly. It’s nice, to meet someone new. It’s been so long since he found someone quite this like-minded that Graves can’t help liking the man.

“I thought small,” Graves says. “It’s just the two of us.”

Theseus gives a pointed look over his shoulder, where the others are laughing and chattering. “As if this gaggle won’t be over every other night.”

Graves catches Tina’s eye. She winks at him and he waves at her. “Fair enough,” he says. “And we do have a growing godson to consider.”

“Precisely,” Theseus says. “Think of growth! It’s what I do.”

“I hear that you move every other year.”

“Well, yes,” Theseus says, completely unabashed, “but at least I’m thinking of a less immediate future when I do.”

Graves shakes his head. “Considering some family growth yourself?”

Theseus puts his hands in his pockets. “Not really,” he says. “I’ve always been rather a bachelor, you see. Had some lovely affairs in the past—I’ll never forget dear old Diana—but no one’s ever quite stuck for me. I’m not the type.”

“Fair enough,” Graves says. “Though be careful. I was a confirmed bachelor for a decade and look where I’ve ended up.”

“Also fair enough,” Theseus says. He stops and Graves stops with him. They look up at a particularly nice house: on the small side, but two-storied. There’s an empty lot between it and the preceding house, and no houses on the other side. “This is the house Perkins told me about. Veiled from Muggles, very standard.”

Graves takes it in for a moment. There’s something about it that feels—friendly. The windows aren’t boarded up, and that lends a certain cheer to the house. It’s an expansion on their previous living space, but not so much that they’ll feel as if they’re rattling around in it. “I like it,” he says.

Theseus smiles. “Well, then,” he says.

“Credence,” Graves says over his shoulder. Credence turns away from a merry argument among their friends—something about inappropriate street conversation which makes Graves glad he wasn’t paying attention—and comes to stand by Graves on the verge. Graves gestures at the house. “What do you think?”

“I like the look of it,” Credence says, noncommittal. Not enthusiastic, not repressive.

Graves looks at him. His nerves prickle. “Not interested?”

“I’m interested,” Credence assures him. Graves can’t hide a flicker of relief—nor, on some level, does he want to. This is something he wants, something he’s worked for, and a particularly stubborn piece of him will not be letting Credence’s troubles prevent him from getting it.

“Shall we go in?” Tina asks, halfway to the front steps.

“Since you’ve already broken in…” Jacob says. He rolls his eyes as he follows her.

“No one will care,” Theseus says, laughing as he claps Jacob on the shoulder.

Somehow, Graves and Credence are the last ones into the house. The others are already dispersed by the time they cross the threshold. It sounds like Theseus has stolen his namesake from Tina, judging by Theseus’ laugh and Young Theseus’ pattering footsteps. Light steps upstairs mean Tina and Queenie are already exploring the second story, while the clattering from the kitchen probably means that Jacob and Newt have decided to investigate the infrastructure.

Graves likes the look of the house even more from the inside, even if he’s only standing in the entrance. The ceilings are high and so are the doorframes, lending air to the narrow hall and small rooms. The wood floor creaks comfortingly as he steps into a front room that looks out on the street. Light floods in through the tall windows, illuminating the austere bare walls and polished floor.

“I like this,” Credence says.

“So do I,” Graves says. He looks up at the tiled ceiling. This house must be genuinely old, to have that intact. “Not too much space, but not…claustrophobic.”

Together, they drift through the other four rooms of the first floor. In a show of consideration, the others leave them to their own devices. The first floor alone is nearly as large as their old house. Graves seems to see the sunnier rooms filling up with plants, books piling in the corners. One room has odd shadows on the wall, from where pictures have hung: Credence points out that they could solve this by filling the room with bookshelves. When they see the fireplace, the first thing Credence says is, “We are _not_ having that connected to the Floo Network,” and Graves laughs.

“We’ll have an actual dining room,” Credence says, glancing around the first floor’s largest room. The floor is scuffed from years of sliding chairs, and oddly enough Graves likes that.

“Are we planning to get a new table?” Graves asks, measuring the room with his eyes. They’ll want something larger—with family able to come by for dinner, it’s only right.

Credence shrugs. He watches Graves slyly out the corner of his eye. “I was thinking we could get something…sturdier.”

It takes a second for the implications of that to sink in, and then the light comes on. There was that incident that left their last table with a permanently wobbly leg. Graves would prefer to forget it, but here Credence is _again_! He’s laughing as he chastises, “Credence!”

Graves tries to catch Credence’s hand, but with a laugh, Credence slips free and ducks back out into the hall. Graves, muttering just loud enough that Credence can hear him, complains about how jokes are even less funny every time they’re repeated. They go up the stairs side by side, shoulders brushing.

The second floor is not quite a mirror of the first. A bathroom and four ordinary rooms, which in about two seconds they’ve decided makes for three bedrooms and a study. “Because you are _not_ tramping down the stairs every single night when inspiration strikes,” Graves says to Credence.

“Right,” Credence says warmly, “you need your beauty rest, don’t you? Anyway, having a room where my pacing won’t bother you will be a Godsend.”

It suddenly occurs to Graves that this is really happening. They aren’t just speculating—they’re _planning_. It’s not “we could” or “we might” but “we can” and “we will”.

They’re alone in the bedroom that silent consensus has declared to be theirs. It sounds like all the rest have gone downstairs. Credence sighs and leans against the wall. “Are we doing this?”

“I like this place,” Graves says. It’s a bit of a non-answer, but he’s not entirely sure how to answer that straightforwardly. He can’t read Credence well enough, right now, to know if this is really what Credence wants. It’s safer to be noncommittal.

“You don’t want to look anywhere else?”

Graves walks to the window and looks out. The back garden is quiet. A sparrow hops on the path, pecking at the ground, unbothered. “No,” he says. “Godric’s Hollow…there’s no one watching. No one listening. It’s safe.”

Credence joins Graves at the window. “Have you always been such a hermit?” he teases.

“You know the answer to that.” He feels his gaze fix somewhere past the church across the field and settle there, unfocused. In every house he’s ever occupied, except for one, aching loneliness had soaked itself into the bones of the building. The Graves family home, the dormitories at Ilvermorny, his first and second apartments in New York, the house he’d lived in when…and in all of them, he had been so very alone.

A hermit by choice? In some ways, yes. Graves is easily exhausted by too many people and the stress of his job left him wanting to close his doors when he was home, rather than throwing them open. At the same time, things had happened slowly to him, through choices he made and didn’t make. The consequences had taken decades to take their toll, but when they came calling…

Graves knows how to command loyalty and lead men. His power and presence guarantee him the ear of virtually anyone in the world, even in his current disgrace. But with that prestige came a need to be calculating, ruthless, even cruel. The self-discipline and determination necessary to reach this point forced him to work every hour of the day, to associate himself with powerful people rather than the right ones, to sacrifice any other desires for the sake of a duty that no one ever told him he had to take up. Of course he had become a hermit.

And when he was taken, no one had noticed he was gone because in so many ways he’d disappeared long before Gellert Grindelwald ever came calling.

He shakes himself from his reverie when Credence says, “I like it here.” He’s looking out the window, down at the overgrown garden. The weeds are out of control, growing with a vengeance. “Lots of space for plants. Will you kill me, if I plant tomatoes again?”

Instantly Graves understands what Credence is saying, and he breaks into a smile that nearly hurts his face. This is a yes. It’s a _yes_. “I’ll ask Theseus to get us in touch with whoever owns this place.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Credence says, smiling back.

“Plant whatever the hell you want,” Graves says. He leans in and kisses Credence, trying to convey all his feelings through the kiss alone.

Credence rests his forehead against Graves’. “Even if I want a Venomous Tentacula.”

“We can buy you gloves.”

“You’d better get on that. And maybe earmuffs, because I want to try Mandrakes.”

“Whatever you want,” Graves repeats, and kisses Credence again before he can keep talking.

They let the conversation end there. They’ve got friends to meet up with again, and deals to make with Theseus’ acquaintance, and a last move to make. That’s enough to keep them occupied. In the end, Credence is happy and that is the final thing that Graves needs to feel happy. As much as he would sacrifice to give Credence whatever he desires, Graves is so much happier getting what he desires. Finally a place where they’re both safe. A place that they can, just maybe, call home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody say _domesticity_?

Graves doesn’t quite know what to make of it, looking around the house for the last time before everyone arrives. They’ve had a week to get things straightened out. The fact that it’s just now February and they’ve already moved in still astounds him.

The books are already overflowing from the library into every other room in the house, and Graves has only made a cursory attempt at clearing them from the surfaces they’re occupying. Credence has been quite patient, only rolling his eyes at the mess fifteen times a day instead of twenty. In so many ways, this house has already begun to feel like home.

It’s nice to go out buying curtains together, and looking at furniture for rooms they never expected to have. As for redecorating the house, Credence despaired over wallpaper, spending an entire day tapping his wand on it to change the pattern and color in each room until it was to his satisfaction. Privately, Graves feels like he’s living in a box of colored crayons, but he does enjoy it.

They’ve got the new dining table that they promised each other, and even if their chairs are a bit odd and mismatched—at least one was pilfered on a midnight escapade to retrieve it when it was thrown out by a No-Maj family up the road—they’re comfortable. The guest bedrooms are still in dire need of assistance but, because of the limitations of time, they’ve elected to put that off. What little furniture they already had has been set up in the house, and even if Graves has moved their bedroom around four times now, he’s beginning to find arrangements that make him happy.

It’s a good life, so far. The life Graves was hoping they’d have. Credence is smiling and laughing, telling jokes and writing late into the night and coming downstairs for breakfast with ink splashed across his nose.

Tonight, since they’re having quite the party, Graves is hard at work in the kitchen. He told Credence earlier, laughing, that he has to prove to Queenie and Jacob that he’s capable of running a kitchen. Credence has been banned for loitering and stealing scraps, sent to the hall to wait for their guests. This leaves Graves to his own devices.

He’s still surprised how much he generally enjoys domestic tasks. He’d never been one in the old days but, then again, he’d never needed to be. His laundry was generally done by someone else, someone came once a week when Graves wasn’t there to clean, he’d generally eaten out of the house (and when he was home he lived on coffee and toast). But now, Graves takes genuine pride in his work. It’s satisfying in ways that office work never quite was.

Out in the hall there’s a loud knocking at the door and a sudden burst of cheerful noise and conversation. Graves smiles as he flicks his wand to send the tomato soup spiraling through the air to its tureen: looks like the horde has arrived. And he’s done just in time.

Suddenly there are people in the kitchen. Queenie flits in first and comes to catch him in a hug, smiling at him. “Smells real good,” she says, glancing around, “and looks a treat.”

Really, it does. Tomato soup aside, Graves produced a beef pot roast of whose tenderness he’s particularly proud, parsnip fritters that are perfectly crisp, fluffy mashed potatoes and gravy, and an asparagus salad. And cake, for later tonight.

He may have overdone it, but then again, there are no fewer than seven people with hearty appetites about to be occupying his table. Considering that this is a bit of a housewarming party, Graves can do no less than his best.

“Thanks,” Graves says. He looks at Jacob, who’s come in with Theseus. “Your verdict?”

“Professional!” Jacob says. He winks. “I wouldn’t expect less from you, Graves.”

Theseus nods, hands in his pockets. “Haven’t had a decent meal since I went back to London off my holiday,” he says. “This is fantastic.”

“Go on and sit down,” Graves says, gesturing to the dining room. He spares a grateful thought for the fact that they had not, in fact, “broken in” the table. Queenie bursts into instant laughter, trying and failing to disguise it as a cough. Theseus and Jacob give them bemused looks, but Graves ignores them with dignity.

“I’ll help out, honey,” Queenie says, going to the counter and observing the food.

“Thank you,” Graves says, smiling.

“Are the others coming to dinner?” Theseus asks.

“I’ll get them,” Jacob says. He goes back out into the hall and Graves hears, “Are you all planning to eat tonight? Graves is impatient.”

Tina laughs from the other room. “Because all of our activities hinge on his limited patience, don’t you know.”

“I heard that!” Graves says loudly.

He and Queenie float the food into the dining room together, to appreciative noises from the whole madding crowd. And a crowd it is. Seven people, plus an infant, make the dining room small. And no one here is quiet, really. Tina and Theseus and Jacob all argue merrily, Credence and Newt are chatting up a storm even if their conversation is lower than the arguments, and of course Graves and Queenie talk away. Young Theseus adds to it, laughing and babbling to anyone who’ll listen in his infant language.

The table is so cramped there’s barely elbow room. Graves has Queenie on his right hand, with Jacob on her other side. Tina is wedged between Jacob and Theseus. Newt is sitting beside his brother, and then Young Theseus occupies a Transfigured high chair between Newt and Credence. And Credence is, of course, beside Graves.

As the food is served, Graves notices Credence looking a little solemn and contemplative. He pauses in what he’s doing, briefly, to listen as Credence bows his head. Barely audible under the conversation, Graves hears, “I thank my God upon every remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all making request with joy for your fellowship in the gospel from the first day until now. May God bless and keep you all. Amen.”

The brief blessing rather warms Graves’ heart. “Kind of you,” he says, under cover of conversation, squeezing Credence’s hand.

“Just Philippians one, three-five,” Credence says. He pauses and adds, “Often I really don’t think I’m kind enough.”

There’s a weary self-awareness in his voice that makes Graves strangely hopeful. Despite the lack of conversation on the topic, clearly Credence is aware that he’s been acting strangely. This isn’t the time or the place to talk, yet Graves is tempted to—

The conversation is interrupted by Young Theseus pointing across the table. “Mashatoto.”

“What?” Theseus asks.

“Even I got that one,” Credence says, before Newt can translate. “Pass the potatoes?”

“Someday he’ll figure out ‘please’,” Tina says meaningfully to Newt.

Newt looks at Theseus. “Say ‘please’, Theseus.”

Young Theseus looks back at his mum. A familiar crease of obstinacy appears on his small face and for second he looks _just_ like Tina. “No.”

“Theseus, say ‘please’ and Credence will give you the potatoes,” Newt says, with a pointed look at Credence. Graves hides a smile at Credence’s visible consternation.

“No!” Young Theseus repeats.

Queenie stifles a giggle. “He sounds _just_ like Tina,” she stage-whispers.

Tina gives her sister a flat look. “Don’t laugh at him. It just makes him more obstinate.”

Young Theseus starts pulling on Credence’s sleeve. “Mashatoto!”

“No!” Newt and Tina chorus in unison.

“Help me,” Credence says to Graves, because Jacob and Queenie and Theseus are all laughing too hard to do anything. It’s not loud laughter, true, because Tina is glaring daggers at all of them, but they are no help.

“Theseus,” Graves says, in his ordering-around-Junior-Aurors voice, “say ‘please’.”

The child looks mutinous. “Please,” he says.

“That is _it_ , you two are his parents now,” Tina says, to a fresh round of hilarity from the onlookers.

“He’ll figure out that Percival is worse than you, soon enough,” Credence says. He dishes more potatoes onto Young Theseus’ plate. Newt, long-suffering parent, is already handing Young Theseus a spoon. “He’s the very model of a modern major-general, as it were. All discipline.”

Graves snorts. “You have _no_ room to talk. Weren’t you the one hounding me about dusting all day yesterday? I seem to recall getting shouted at for leaving a speck of dust on the banister.”

“I did not _shout_. I was just loud. And you’d skipped dusting half the banister!”

“You two are settling in very well,” Theseus comments, between bites. “When should I expect the wedding invitation?”

Credence drops his fork and Graves chokes. Not this conversation now, of all times. Queenie pounds him hard on the back. “Oh God,” Credence mutters, diving to retrieve his utensil where it clattered under the table. Lucky man, escaping this.

“Was it something I said?” Theseus asks innocently. The sparkle of mischief belies his real intent.

“We can’t get married,” Graves says. He tries for calm, but suspects it isn’t working, just based on Tina’s expression. Oh, well. “We aren’t exactly in a position—”

Jacob cuts in. “If you want to deny it, pick another excuse. You’re not outlaws anymore!”

Newt looks sideways at them. “It is a good question. Are you two—”

Queenie clears her throat. “It is _none_ of our business.” She meets Graves’ eyes and he knows she saw what’s in his mind. Names, rings—they’re leashes that can be pulled, objects of control. At least as far as Credence is concerned, no amount of love and trust can seem to undo the locks of his past. Even from Graves, Credence will never accept anything he perceives as control.

They’ve had conversations about this more than once.

Very loud conversations.

The fact that Queenie, of all people, is the one saying that something is not their business shuts down the conversation immediately. Even Theseus has the good sense not to pry. In a small blessing, Young Theseus has ignored all of this. He’s busy attempting to build a small castle out of his potatoes. It isn’t working very well, but Graves can give points for effort.

“Have you two met your neighbors yet?” Jacob finally asks.

“We’ve been here a week,” Credence says. “We’ve seen a few people, but not really _met_ them, if you know what I mean.”

“Godric’s Hollow really is quiet,” Graves says. “They’re private people. Credence and I fit in well.”

Tina sighs. “I recall you saying you were moving to England so you could stop being hermits.”

“We only moved in a week ago,” Credence says.

“Doesn’t signify. Are you planning to meet your neighbors?” Tina asks. Credence glances at Graves, who shrugs. Tina takes a satisfied sip of her wine. “That’s what I thought.”

“We’ll do our best to meet people,” Graves promises. “Though I think they’re in for a shock, two American outlaw wizards moving in down the street.”

Credence smiles at him. “Agreed. I don’t think the wizarding world is ready for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CRAYONS! They've been around forever, because really they're just sticks of wax or charcoal or chalk or whatever meant for writing or drawing. Today we mostly refer to them in terms of small wax sticks, primarily used by children in art projects. You can thank Crayola for that, largely: they started their famous brand in 1903, proliferating color everywhere. 
> 
> Tomato soup is first noted in 1872, and Joseph Campbell proposed his recipe for condensed tomato soup in 1897. Menus from as early as 1909 propose that it be eaten as part of a dinner—so, yeah, definitely a thing. The rest of the menu is typical for the early 1900s; I figure that Graves is just an old-fashioned man, and there’s no way to go wrong with mashed potatoes.
> 
> “The very model of a modern major-general”: Pirates of Penzance opened in 1879. There IS a recording made in 1921, so I can totally imagine that Credence has heard it and probably ADORED it. You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tGOzHPKb8E


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry, y'all. :(

After dinner, Credence volunteers to take care of washing up. He clearly needs to step away for the moment, so Graves accepts the offer. Thinking of Credence’s habit of forgetting where dishes go, he gives playfully dire warnings to put all the dishes “in the right places this time”. Laughing, Credence shoos him out and sends the others off, too.

They step into the parlor, taking up seats all around. Newt suggests a game of Exploding Snap; this is met with round acclaim by Theseus and Tina, and after some good-natured commiseration about being the only two who won’t let the house burn down Graves agrees to play and Jacob to watch. Queenie pops back into the kitchen to remind Credence to come and play, when he’s done.

It's been a long time since Graves played Exploding Snap, so he’s more than a little rusty. It’s a British game to begin with, and on top of that he never thought to play this game of all games with Credence. The others are all semi-regular players, which gives Graves only one advantage: he’s faster than everyone at the table but Newt. Jacob, lacking a wand, sits by and commentates the round, to uproarious laughter. Later on they plan to play poker, which he can play and Queenie’s not allowed to on account of her Legilimency.

It’s a wild game indeed, cards going off with small fiery bangs at every turn, so much shouting and laughing. The night is overwhelmed by a cheerful and indeed festival atmosphere. Jacob’s roasts are worthy of the Friars Club, leading Queenie to practically cry with laughter, infected by everyone else’s merriment.

After three or four rounds, Tina scoops up Young Theseus from where he’s playing on the floor, who’s begun to mutter with irritation and get a little red in the face. “We’ll go sit with Credence,” she says. She rubs the child’s back, talking soothingly. “Be back in a little while.”

“Have fun,” Theseus calls, as she steps away. He turns back to the table: “The next round?”

They play another two short rounds before Newt suggests, “Let’s go to the Bavarian rules—I rather enjoy those.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Graves says.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Queenie says as Newt deals out the cards in a circle, “we’ll help you keep track of it all.”

Graves gives her a look. “You say that, but I know you’re planning to win.”

Jacob laughs. “He’s got your number!”

She smiles smugly. “It ain’t like this is poker,” she says.

“Legilimency is an unfair advantage,” Graves persists, even as they all draw their wands and prepare to play. “Do you remember dueling me and how you absolutely—”

He’s cut off by the beginning of play, which requires all his concentration. He really doesn’t know the rules, but Graves is not the first to err. No, that’s Theseus, whose wand comes down on just the wrong card. There’s enough time for Newt to say, “Oh, _bugger_ —”

And every single card explodes.

There’s half a breath of silence, and then something crashes in the kitchen. Tina swears—“Oh, _Merlin’s Beard_!”—and then—

The foundations of the house shake as the whole kitchen erupts into screams. Horrifying screams, the screams of the Obscurus. Graves is on his feet, wand falling from his hands, as Tina staggers out of the kitchen. Newt grabs Tina and pulls her away from the kitchen door.

“What happened?” Theseus demands. “What’s happening?”

“ _Where is Theseus_!?” Newt shouts, overriding his brother.

Tina is shaking, wrenching out her wand and trying to get back to the kitchen. “He climbed up on the counter—a stack of glasses went over and the next thing I know—”

Graves understands instantly. His heart drops and he practically sprints to the kitchen door. The frame is cracking, but he ignores it. He has to get to Credence.

It’s a waking nightmare.

Something about the glasses falling must have awoken some memory, brought it all back to the surface, and the Obscurus responded. Graves wants to deal with this gently. But Young Theseus is in there, and there’s no way to know how the Obscurus will treat him.

The chaos in the room makes Graves’ head spin. Credence is in the middle of the room, with Young Theseus in his arms. His shoulders are hunched as if protecting the child, eyes closed tight, terrified. Young Theseus is reaching toward the door, screaming for his mama. In the other door, Jacob, Theseus, and Queenie are clustered. And the Obscurus is all around—a storm of magic and broken glass. To get to Credence—

“Theseus!” Tina shouts, trying to shove past Graves.

He throws out an arm to stop her. “Don’t scare him more!”

“Get him out!” Newt’s voice is sharp as he presses in close to Tina. “If you won’t let us—get Theseus _out_!” He’s not speaking of Credence, he’s speaking of Young Theseus, and Graves is caught in the horrifying recognition that, right now, Credence really is a threat.

Graves steps into the room. A shard of glass slashes across his cheek and he flinches, throwing up his arms to protect his face. But—that he can’t do, he has to see Credence, he has to let Credence _see him_ , so he lowers his arms and shouts. “ _Credence_!”

Credence’s eyes snap open, wide and white, locking onto Graves with panicked precision. Graves forces himself to meet Credence’s gaze. He takes a few steps forward. The Obscurus is still screaming, but not so loud, not quite as terrified.

Graves ignores the insubstantial mass coiling around his legs. “Credence,” he repeats, advancing more, “Theseus is safe.”

Young Theseus is really crying now, alternating between clinging to Credence and trying to pull himself away. Credence is completely frozen.

Now Graves is within arm’s reach. He keeps his eyes on Credence. “You’re safe,” he says. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“ _It’s not me_ ,” Credence says in a cracked voice. The Obscurus echoes his words, and something about the echo disturbs Graves. “ _It’s_ _Theseus_ ,” Credence says, and _it’s Modesty_ , whispers the Obscurus.

No time to dwell on it. “Do you trust me?” Graves asks softly. He thinks that Credence won’t hear, over the Obscurus, but by some miracle he does.

Slowly, Credence nods, and that’s all Graves needs. He steps in and pulls Credence in. Young Theseus stops screaming, reaching for Graves, who manages to transfer the child away from Credence’s smoking arms. The Obscurus’ howls fade into miserable whispers, and the matter of it sinks to drag on the ground. It’s safe for Tina to take several quick steps into the room and snatch Young Theseus from Graves before withdrawing.

Graves glances at Jacob, who nods at the stairs. The man’s a little pale, but Graves trusts him to deal with the fallout downstairs. Queenie, overwhelmed by chaotic thoughts, is sitting at the table, head in her hands, attended by a confused and frustrated Theseus; Newt and Tina have withdrawn to look after their son. The house is still standing.

There will be time for explanations once Graves is sure that Credence won’t actually bring the building down around them. He gets Credence out of the room and upstairs, to their bedroom. Credence’s clothes are in tatters where the Obscurus burst through them, and as Credence laboriously undresses Graves has to suppress a flinch when he realizes for perhaps the first time that the only places that the Obscurus emerged were from Credence’s scars. The scars are all across his back, his legs…and his arms. Luckily there’s no blood, but Graves knows what he’ll be seeing in his nightmares tonight.

Once or twice, in a cracked voice that leaves smoke spilling from his mouth, Credence tries to apologize. Graves just shushes him. He’s not sure there’s fault here at all—how can fault be traced back tonight? Is it Credence, who had no control over a waking nightmare? Tina, who spoke loudly in exasperation? Young Theseus, who was startled and smashed the glasses? Theseus, who failed a play and caused the initial explosion? Newt, who suggested the game?

No, there’s no fault that Graves can see.

He’s not sure that anyone downstairs will buy that. Worse, he thinks, as he helps Credence settle on the bed, he’s not even sure that he buys that. Is the fault somewhere deeper? With Graves for not helping Credence to control this?

“What happened?” Graves asks, carefully rubbing Credence’s back.

“I saw Modesty,” Credence says. He covers his face with his hands. “Young Theseus smashed the glasses and Tina shouted, and it wasn’t Tina…it was Ma…”

Graves closes his eyes and wills away angry words. Mary Lou Barebone, he hopes, is burning in the hell she preached to everyone else. “You were protecting your sister from her?”

“She was two,” Credence says. His voice is weary. “I was sixteen, I was older and bigger, and if someone had to get hit…”

There’s nothing to be said, right now, about how Credence shouldn’t have had to do that. It’s all been said before, besides. Graves can only swallow his anger and stay there, sitting by Credence, as the Obscurus settles like a thick carpet of black dust across the whole room.

“Do you want me to stay?” Graves asks eventually.

There’s a pause, in which Graves thinks he hears the Obscurus whining a _yes_ , until Credence speaks for himself. “No,” he says.

“I’ll be back in a while,” Graves says. He pauses: “Unless you’d rather I sleep elsewhere?”

Credence shakes his head. “Just…I need some time.”

Graves kisses his forehead and smooths back his hair. “Shout if you want me,” he says. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. For a long time, he leans against the door and listens to the faint hissing sighs of the Obscurus beyond. Tendrils of it lick under the doorframe, but they’re tired, just brushing at Graves’ feet. He watches them for a few moments, hoping that they’ll disappear, and finding those hopes dashed.

And then he goes back downstairs.

The other five have gathered in the living room. Newt is holding Young Theseus now, the child asleep on his shoulder, tiny red face relaxed in sleep. “How is he?” Graves asks quietly.

“Tired out but none the worse for wear,” Newt says.

He holds out his hand and Pickett scrambles onto his palm, transferring to Graves’ hand. The tiny weight of the Bowtruckle is a comfort, as Graves sets Pickett on his shoulder. As usual, it’s as if Pickett knows that Graves needs a little support, and Graves is grateful to the little plant.

“We,” Tina says from where she sits beside Newt, “need to talk.”

Her voice wavers and Graves feels a sharp pang of hurt for her. Tina is a brave woman, but seeing Credence explode like that—around Young Theseus, to boot—isn’t easy for anyone. “Yes,” Graves says, leaning against the wall over a stack of books. “We do.”

“You said he was doing better,” Jacob says somberly. He stands in the door to the kitchen, hands in his pockets. Almost contemplative.

“He was,” Graves says. Emphasis on ‘was.’

“What was that?” Theseus demands.

“The Obscurus,” Newt says softly.

“I know what it was, but _what was that_? I thought you said he was under control. He quite plainly isn’t, and the Ministry still let him into the country?”

“Dumbledore said—” Newt begins.

Jacob cuts him off. “Your man Dumbledore is real good about doing trustworthy things. Didn’t he provoke Credence back at Hogwarts? And he knows exactly where Credence is, because he’s the one who recommended Godric’s Hollow. I think it’s real funny that the only other man who knows what Credence can do is the same one who brought him here.”

Graves almost says something, but Theseus cuts him off. “There’s no evidence of that kind of conspiracy,” Theseus says. “I’ll question the man’s competence any day, but not his loyalty.”

Queenie dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. “All the evidence—those boys and the delays in the Ministry and all—what do we do if it _is_ a conspiracy?”

“It isn’t a conspiracy!” Newt snaps.

“I doubt it’s a conspiracy either,” Graves says, trying to be level. “The man's not exactly trustworthy, but in his position I might have done the same. It’s a matter of pragmatism.”

“None of this matters,” Tina says. Ah, good old Tina, forcing the conversation to stay with the topic at hand. Even if it’s a topic that Graves would really rather not discuss. “What’s important is that Credence could have hurt Theseus.”

“Credence was trying to protect the kid,” Jacob says, and Graves feels a small flare of gratitude that someone is standing up for Credence right now.

Tina laughs, sharp and angry. “Because that monster is _so_ predictable when it tries to protect people. What happens next time Credence cracks?”

_Monster_.

The silence is horrible.

For a second, Graves stands there with his mouth half-open, ripped completely off his balance by that little word. Is that what Tina thinks? By the expressions on all the other faces, they’re just as shocked.

“I mean—the Obscurus,” Tina says in a rush. Her face is white. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Graves says.

It is blatantly not all right, not when he’s not sure whether Tina meant the Obscurus or Credence, but Graves hasn’t really got the wherewithal right now to deal with this conversation. Queenie gives him a small, approving nod. There will be time later, to deal with that.

“All I mean is—you love him and I do too. But you have to see it. He’s _dangerous_ ,” Tina says.

Graves is silent for a long, long moment. Finally, he says quietly, “I know.”

“And so what?” Jacob demands. “We’re all dangerous. Or, well, you are.”

“We can all control ourselves!” Tina snaps.

“Keep your voice down,” Theseus says, with a significant glance at Young Theseus.

Newt leans forward a little. “ _Has_ he been getting better?” he asks.

For a moment, Graves contemplates lying. But then he remembers that Queenie is in the room, so it’s useless. “No,” he says. He rubs his face with one hand. “He’s been getting worse.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Tina asks.

“I thought he would recover. That this was being unsettled from the move. I expected things to change when he was out among people.”

“That,” Theseus says, with a sideways glance at his brother, “is not how these things work.”

Newt looks down at the floor. “No,” he says. “It isn’t.” There’s a reason that Newt likes to live so far from civilization, yes, but Graves isn’t sure the situations are entirely comparable.

“I thought he’d recover too,” Queenie admits in a whisper. She sniffs and bites her lip. “Thought it wasn’t so…deep, you know? He was so happy…”

That, Graves thinks as he sees them all out and returns in the silence to clean up all the things that have been destroyed, is perhaps the problem. Credence was happy, but the scars he carries cut very deep. And, as Graves himself knows only too well, wounds to the spirit are like wounds made by magic.

They don’t always heal the way they’re supposed to, if they ever heal at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comedy roasts as we know them now (and as Jacob presumably delivered them) began with the Friars Club in 1904. The club began as a typical men's club (yes, men's, welcome to the early 1900s), with notaries of the day gathering for lavish dinners. A change took place when, as early as 1910, members would be joked about and "roasted" before their friends and peers as an evening's entertainment. Guests of honor, not members, might be invited to find themselves the butt of the evening's good-natured but pointed comedy. 
> 
> Back to the status of women in the club: though women were absolutely never invited in the early days, that did begin to change as time went on. One woman snuck in dressed as a man and managed to make it the entire evening undiscovered. Lucille Ball and Carol Burnett both attended as guests of honor for roasts. In 1988, women were finally allowed to be card-carrying members, and the club hasn't looked back since.
> 
> The club is still in existence today.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More domesticity! 
> 
> **Oversharing ahead, with mentions of depression and suicide.**
> 
> I feel like I've somehow failed to warn everyone about the nature of this story. I know that "a better mirror" deals with some pretty heavy themes, but there was always...hm, a certain lightheartedness to it? The focus was on the journey and on the family, and the dealing with trauma came second. 
> 
> Part of that was how I was feeling at the time. I wrote the story (all 100,000-something words) in a hypomanic episode over the course of a month. At the time, there was a lot of...optimism in my life. I finally had a diagnosis of mental health, I had started medications, therapy was going well, my academic life was in fantastic shape.
> 
> What I didn't recognize at the time (nearly two years ago now) was that it wasn't the end of the very rough road I'm traveling. During that episode, I drove away one of my best friends. I overinvested myself in the world during a very frightening period and caught a case of compassion fatigue like no other. The hypomanic episode ended, and if I had a great summer it faded into one of the hardest winters I've ever dealt with and an 8-month-long suicidal depression. And so on and so forth. 
> 
> Of course, I was writing the Hypothetical Sequel during all this. My writing motivation fluctuated as my academic life and personal life imploded around me. I realized I had to end my story before one of the early months in 1932, because I was not prepared to deal with writing my characters during the early stages of the Nazi regime (this story originally took place over the course of a year, and I've...uh, compressed it). The world has been getting darker and it is very very hard to keep writing a hopeful story when you feel like you've hit rock bottom. 
> 
> And maybe more poignantly for me, if the Obscurus is a metaphor for mental illness in this story, which it is, then this became a story of how there are no easy answers. At the end of "a better mirror," they sail away from their problems believing that just moving forward will fix them. Turns out, it isn't exactly that easy. Mental illness doesn't just go away. It is a constant specter. Just like I can't just get over bipolar disorder, Credence can't just hide from the Obscurus. 
> 
> As a result...this fic is a lot rougher. It's not that I like torturing these characters, or making all of you sad. This is just...not the same story as the last one. 
> 
> I'm sorry.

In that first fortnight of residence in Godric’s Hollow after that awful evening, Graves takes to walking. He’s restless and can’t stay still, and more often than not Credence is distant and wants to be alone. Writing inspiration must be thick in the air in Godric’s Hollow with the rate that papers are piling up, and while Graves is glad, it can be rather boring to be alone in the house like this.

So he takes to the roads and fields, despite the chill February weather. It may be cold and rainy, but the West Country is beautiful. Fields and forests roll for miles around Godric’s Hollow, and Graves enjoys walking every inch. He sees plenty of life: there are occasionally deer, and of course songbirds, rabbits, and so on and so forth. Sometimes there are gulls flying overhead: it’s only twenty miles to the sea, and their cries are not uncommonly heard.

More magically speaking, there’s a tree of Bowtruckles in a copse a mile from the village, which Graves visits quite often. He has enough of the language from Pickett to be able to recognize some of their words. When he brings them treats they’ll chatter at him and even climb on his hands.

As if by mutual agreement, Graves and Credence treat the whole incident in the kitchen as if it never happened. Graves doesn’t know how to speak to Credence about that night, about how things might not be getting better and how perhaps they need to reevaluate everything they thought was true about their life. So he doesn’t speak, he simply carries on. For the most part, he can forget.

Thus far Godric’s Hollow is very quiet. Nothing has happened except for an awkward-but-pleasant lunch with the Perkins family and gaining a better acquaintance with the merchants of Godric’s Hollow. There’s Campanula Cotterill who owns the apothecary, Matthias Pussett who owns the bookstore, the Sackvilles who manage the owlery, and Wallace Woodbrygge who owns the local tavern. These are the only wizarding businesses in town, and mostly people do their business with the No-Majs in the vicinity. There’s nothing sinister here, nothing at all. It’s just a pleasant, quiet little town whose tallest building is the steeple of the little church.

Credence begins attending the church on Sunday mornings. He reports back that the structure of the service is a little strange but the prayers and text are the same. “I stick to the back,” he says self-consciously, when Graves asks, “it seems a little bit safer.”

It also seems to Graves as if Credence is questioning his faith and so, with Credence’s permission, they go to church together one Sunday morning. Graves is curious about all of this. The parish priest, Father Anning, is a kindly-looking man, and Graves likes him on sight. “The peace of the Lord be always with you,” he says at the close of the sermon, and the congregation responds: “And also with you.” It sounds so simple, so easy, and Graves wishes for Credence’s sake that it were.

Graves finds himself spending more and more time at the bookshop. Matthias is an elderly chap indeed, an old wizard who’s lived his entire life in Godric’s Hollow. He wears a monocle. His shop is well-loved, bringing in books from Flourish and Blott’s in London, and selling many of the schoolbooks that young witches and wizards will want at lower prices than those in Diagon Alley. There are also local histories, legends, memoirs, and so on. And then there are the rare old tomes and grimoires kept in a locked back room—dusty treasures that Graves itches to get his hands on.

One evening, after Graves comes back rather late from the shop, he finds that Credence has been so hard at work that there’s no dinner. Credence, apologetic with his pen still behind his ear from working, agrees to help prepare. He’d discovered onions in the garden, bulbs left behind by the previous owners and left to propagate alone; as a result, Graves elects that onion soup is the word of the day.

“ _French_ onion soup,” Credence emphasizes, settling down with a cutting board and a small heap of onions to cut.

“We don’t have the right cheese,” Graves says, getting to work on his own pile.

Credence sighs. “Does it really matter?” he asks plaintively. “We can at least have toast with it…”

Rolling his eyes, Graves goes with it. In an hour, they have a good hearty onion soup—with toast and the wrong cheese on top, because it made Credence smile. Over dinner they trade surprisingly literary stories, Credence raving about the strangeness of Ancient Runes and Graves telling some story about a particularly odd customer in the shop.

“Why don’t you work there?” Credence asks, when all that’s left on the table are the dishes.

“What?”

Credence shrugs. “You like books. You like Matthias. Why not ask if you can work there?”

“You think I’d enjoy it?” Graves asks cautiously.

“I know you would,” Credence says.

Graves takes it under advisement, and the very next day he raises the subject with Matthias. The old shopkeeper hums thoughtfully. “Let me consider,” he says, winking behind the monocle.

Things reach a new equilibrium. Credence opens up about what he’s writing again, and after a slow start an essay about arts and culture in the wizarding world seems to be off like a shot. Dinner for three days running is essentially a lecture about the shameful state of wizarding institutions and the No-Maj model. Graves catches himself caring more and more about the subject, eagerly awaiting each update of the essay as Credence works and reworks.

He’s reading downstairs while Credence works upstairs, red pen behind his ear to make suggestions. It’s really beginning to gather steam: _The lack of organized preservation of wizarding cultural history is a disservice, not only to the half-bloods and Muggle-borns who require introduction to the history that is theirs by rights, but also to ‘pure-bloods’ as well—_

And then someone knocks on the front door.

Graves pauses and blinks, rudely awakened; he sets the essay down regretfully, puts the red pen aside, and goes to the door. The floor creaks under his feet and the door creaks a bit as it reveals the woman standing on the other side. “Hello?” Graves says, somewhat cautiously.

The woman, a comfortable-looking lady about Graves’ age that he has certainly seen around town before, offers her hand to him. “Good morning!” she chirps with a lovely West Country accent as they shake hands. “A pleasure to meet you, my name is Bathilda Bagshot.”

“Percival Graves. Please, come in and sit down,” Graves says, opening the door wider and gesturing to the front room. She steps past and sits down smartly. Graves ducks toward the stairs: “I’ll just call him down…Credence! Tear yourself away for a bit, we have company!”

A moment later, Credence comes into the room. His pencil is behind _his_ ear and he still has the half-asleep look of a writer pulled away from a magnum opus. The moment that Bathilda sees him, she’s right back on her feet, offering her hand. “So you’re Credence!” she says brightly, as he shakes her hand. “I’m Bathilda Bagshot. Your neighbor, two streets over. And please—call me Bathilda!”

“A pleasure,” Credence says, with what Graves recognizes as a genuine smile. “You’re our official welcoming committee?”

Bathilda shrugs. “Unofficial,” she says as she sits down again. “But the whole neighborhood knows that if anyone’s going to welcome neighbors, it’ll be me. I like to bring by some homemade Cauldron Cakes—just a housewarming gift, you know.”

“Thank you,” Graves says, smiling and leaning back in his seat. “That’s really more than we deserve, after being hermits for almost a month.”

“Oh, stop,” Bathilda says, waving a hand at him. “You needed time to settle in! Must be a real shock, coming from America to our little place.”

Credence, sitting on a dining room chair Summoned to sit by the door, says airily, “Oh, it’s not so bad. This is much better than New York.”

“It certainly is,” Graves says.

“Well, I doubt that!” Bathilda laughs, and Graves chuckles along. It’s infections “Godric’s Hollow is interesting, of course, but not _half_ of New York!”

“What’s interesting here?” Credence asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Bathilda looks out the window, toward the church. “They do say that the church graveyard is haunted,” she says. “By some fourteenth-century spirit or some such. Quite creepy—walks the whole yard in the dead of night, gliding among the tombstones! And by all accounts isn’t a very friendly ghost.”

“Ghosts aren’t so awful,” Graves says in Credence’s direction. He looks a little pale.

“Magic is fine, but spirits are still troublesome,” Credence says, a little stiffly.

Graves waves a hand. “They’re mostly just nuisances, at worst. Good conversationalists, some of them, if you’re lucky. Now, _poltergeists_ , on the other hand…”

“Haven’t you ever seen a ghost?” Bathilda asks Credence.

“No,” he says. “I’m—ah, I’m a Muggle-born, so…”

“Well, if you’re nervous, don’t worry,” she says comfortingly. “I’ve never seen the ghost. Now, the knuckerholes, on the other hand!”

Graves raises an eyebrow. Suddenly, it feels as if he’s dived into a conversation with Newt, and this at least is familiar ground. “Knuckerholes?”

“Why, holes where a Knucker lives!” Bathilda exclaims. “The whole south of England used to be riddled with them.”

“And a Knucker is—?”

Bathilda’s round glasses flash a bit in the sunlight streaming in the window. “A Knucker’s a sort of a dragon, though it’s not very impressive and said to be rather slimy,” she says. “There used to be a few, round these parts, but anymore all that’s left are the holes in the hills. They go rather deep, but everyone knows they’re quite empty nowadays.”

Credence looks as if he’ll fall off his chair with how far forward he’s leaning. “What happened to the Knuckers?”

“Oh, there was a knight who slew them all, then married a local girl and settled down. He died defending the town from a marauding pack of werewolves, and they buried him under the church,” Bathilda says. As an afterthought, she adds, “They say the ghost in the graveyard is his wife, who died of a broken heart.”

“That’s…quite the legend,” Graves says. “A footnote in a history book, though.”

“Even the smallest stories have details that can make them loom large,” Bathilda says with certainty. “Why, just looking around this room I can see that there are so many stories around you two. So very much history. I know it isn’t my business, and I’m not the town gossip because Jack Desmond took that title ten years ago and hasn’t given it back, but I’d dearly love to know more about you both.”

Credence flinches minutely. “There’s not much to tell.”

“We’re very private people,” Graves says.

The woman looks at him keenly for a moment, and then looks at Graves. Briefly, Graves feels an itch at the back of his head, but then it passes. “I shan’t pry,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French onion soup should only be made with Gruyere cheese on top; anything else is apparently an abomination. 
> 
> As to the toast on top…well, this is super fun. I’ll just quote Wikipedia on it: “The word soup comes from French _soupe_ ("soup", "broth"), which comes through Vulgar Latin _suppa_ ("bread soaked in broth") from a Germanic source, from which also comes the word "sop", a piece of bread used to soak up soup or a thick stew.” And there you go!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: two people with tempers go after each other in this chapter and are not nice about it. People who dislike loud and angry verbal disagreements, proceed with caution.

In the end, Graves does take up volunteer employment at the bookshop. Matthias is glad to have someone around to do the heavy lifting of book-boxes. When Graves offers, he’s also happy to let a powerful wizard reinforce the defensive hexes on the locked back room. Graves is happy to see the books, especially after some years without books like this.

Given the historic nature of this town, there are plenty of people coming by. Holiday-makers, historians, pilgrims, and alumni of Hogwarts’ Gryffindor house come to the village frequently. Many of them end up at the bookshop, ravenous for information and souvenirs. Matthias—and Graves by extension—is happy to provide both.

It’s wryly novel to perform clerical work, Graves thinks as he tallies Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons after a long day. Tedious work, but all the rest is interesting. He spends an entire afternoon cataloguing a cramped closet in search of a single old book, which ends up having been sold down the street to the Perkinses three years ago. One customer who can’t find an acceptable book threatens to hex Graves into next week. Graves expedites the customer’s removal by enchanting all of the books into flapping missiles, and sending them hurtling on the man’s heels.

All in all, it’s rewarding work.

Meanwhile, Credence is consumed by writing. At last his inspiration is back, and he scorches through the composition of essay after essay. This most recent one is a follow-up to the first essay on the state of the arts, and he races through it in three nights. And then he’s off editing it and sending it off to the press of Augustus Worme for publication.

“Will you put your name to it, now that you don’t have to be anonymous?” Graves asks, as Credence folds up the final draft and tucks it into an envelope.

Credence licks the gum of the envelope and folds the flap over before answering. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I’m not quite prepared for that yet.”

Graves is somehow unsurprised. Worme has been publishing all Credence’s work under the Obscurus Books imprint—a name which the man had for years before Credence came along, and a fittingly ironic imprint for anything Credence writes—and attributing the essays to “The Anonymous Shadow”. It’s the most melodramatic pseudonym _ever_. Graves laughs every time he hears it

After the essay is delivered, there is a rare return letter from the publisher. Worme writes to inform Credence that the essay has been stunningly well-received. _It has even sparked some conversation among Ministry officials about the failings of the government,_ he says. _I have had three different aspiring novelists—two young witches and a very elderly wizard—seek me out in the last three days to discuss publication of their books. They requested that their work be published under the Obscurus Books imprint, too, at least one of them citing the reason of wishing to be associated with the Anonymous Shadow. A curious turn of events. In a similar vein, you have produced so many essays that I have begun to contemplate the publication of your essays in an anthology._

“A _what_ ,” Credence says, dropping the letter on the table.

Graves picks up the letter, rereading the words Credence already read aloud. “Would you want something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. He stares at the piece of paper as Graves sets it down.

“Any reason you’d hesitate in publishing an anthology? Only asking so I understand.” And really, Graves doesn’t understand. There is definitely a readership on the work Credence puts forward. Augustus Worme is making an absolute fortune off of those essays.

“I won’t lie and say no one will be interested,” Credence says. He rubs his eyes. “But if I published…” He stops. Idly tears at the edge of the paper, twisting the margins into a ragged filigree.

After a moment or two of silence, Graves prompts, “If you published?”

Credence sighs heavily. “I’d want to do it under my real name, not the pseudonym.”

It feels a bit like Graves is standing on a cliff’s edge, despite the sun pouring in the windows and over the room, warm as honey. “You could publish under your real name,” he says. “It’s not illegal for you to exist.”

Staring out the far window, carefully not looking at Graves, Credence says, “Worme will want me to publish under a full name, and I don’t have a surname.”

Heartbeats of silence pass, one and two and three.

So that’s the score.

Graves isn’t sure if he should proceed, or drop the subject. Their last conversation on this point was as close to a true fight as they’ve ever come. But it’s been raised, so…

“We could change that,” Graves says quietly.

Credence presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I—Percival, I can’t—”

The shadows hiss. Graves reacts fast, rising to his feet and pulling Credence with him into a tight hug. “It’s all right,” he says.

“It is _not_ all right,” Credence says thickly. “You give me _everything_ and I can’t even give you this, I act like you’re going to control me with just a word, I’m sorry…”

“I just want,” Graves starts, pauses, and then continues with every ounce of determination he can muster, “I don’t want to control you, Credence, not now and not _ever_. But my name—it would be an advantage for you when you don’t have very many of your own. There are doors my name can open, protections it can offer, even if I’m estranged from my entire family and disgraced beyond all words. That name—it can protect you even when I can’t.”

He’s never said that, any of that. It’s been lurking below the surface in every argument, in so many things Graves has considered. And still, Credence doesn’t respond.

Graves has to say something. “Name or not, the greatest thing of all is being with you.”

“Yes, because that’s such a treasure,” Credence says, pulling away. His expression is tight and his eyes flicker white. “I’m so wonderful to be around.”

Instantly Graves sees red. Self-loathing. Will it never go away? “This _again_? I thought you were getting better!”

Credence jerks back. Graves realizes he’s made a mistake, but can’t turn back now. “Maybe I was, or maybe you’re just too damn blind to see what I am,” Credence spits.

Graves is already recovering from his error. “And what are you?”

“A monster around anyone because I’m too damn dangerous,” Credence says. He circles a bit, putting the table between them. His voice is shaking. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Graves feels like the floor just went out from under them, like the sun went out.

How does Credence know about that conversation?

By a miracle he gets words in his mouth, but coming out they burn like acid on his tongue. “You heard all of that?”

“Every word.”

On some level, Graves wants to dissemble. To prevaricate. To even try to straightforwardly lie to Credence. He can’t. “I didn’t call you a monster.”

Credence parodies a smile. It’s thin and savage and _cruel_. “Oh, yes, that makes it right when you’ve decided to tell the world that I’m never getting better. That I’m getting worse. More dangerous, more monstrous. Are you afraid I’ll kill someone?”

The rage is instant and blinding. Graves doesn’t think as his fist hits the table with a crash. “That is _not_ what I meant!” he shouts. Credence stumbles back, eyes wild and wide and white. “Talking like you’re a broken record doesn’t equate to killing people!”

“Doesn’t it?” Credence says, skin cracking around his mouth. There’s oily darkness spilling out onto the floor. “Isn’t that the same thing, when it comes to me?”

For a long moment of silence, Graves just stands there. A muscle twitches in his jaw. There is so much left to say but he can’t find the words to begin. “This conversation is over,” he says finally.

Credence nods. “It’s over,” he says hollowly. Graves swallows hard and walks out of the room.

He doesn’t know what else he can do.

 

***

 

“Matthias wants me to go to London,” Graves says three days after the argument. It’s the only time to speak, when they’re both stalling for time among breakfast porcelain and crusts of toast and marmalade. It feels about like the floor has Vanished from under him, but he has to say it anyway.

“Oh? Business or pleasure?” Credence asks. The casual tone is undermined by the fact that Credence won’t look at Graves.

Attempting to ignore this, Graves shrugs. “Well, business, technically.” He can’t entirely keep his excitement hidden. “I’m going to Flourish and Blotts, to talk to them about the sales of some of these new novels. Whether we should stock them or not, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like it’s actually a vacation for you.”

“A little,” Graves says.

It’s quiet for a moment, as Graves swirls his coffee and Credence stares at the front page of the Daily Prophet without reading.

This is the first significant conversation they’ve had in three days. For two of the last days Credence had fallen asleep at his desk; for the other, Graves stayed late at the bookshop and ended up sleeping on the couch because “I didn’t want to wake you”. They’re both terrified to broach the subject of the argument. The things they said are not easy to take back, or forgive.

Finally, Graves summons his courage. “I thought you might want to go along,” he says. “Diagon Alley is always an adventure. And Queenie and Jacob will love to see you.”

It doesn’t seem to take any thought for Credence to look at Graves now. Lightly, deliberately, Credence says, “I think it’s best if you and I are apart for a while.”

Graves feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. He stays absolutely still, to prevent himself from shattering into pieces. “Well, I suppose I should pack,” he says, looking away from Credence.

He departs early the next morning, before Credence is even dressed, before it’s light outside. To Graves’ surprise, Credence follows Graves to the door. “Enjoy London,” he says feebly, as Graves opens the door and steps out. “And give my love to Queenie and Jacob.”

“I will,” Graves says. He feels melancholy in a way he hasn’t for a long time. And his clothes are disarranged, hair tousled, not at all what he should wear on a business trip to London. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

He turns to go, and pauses at the sidewalk. But he doesn’t look back. With a deep breath, he keeps walking.

By the time he arrives, Graves has put himself into lighter spirits by force if nothing else. He smiles and waves to Matthias as he comes up to the bookshelf. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, Graves,” Matthias says. He’s in the act of unlocking the door—the old wizard still uses No-Maj keys. “Come in, I have the Floo all ready.”

With a faint pang, Graves thinks of how Credence hates the Floo, and does his best to put it out of his mind. “Straight to Flourish and Blott’s?”

“They’re expecting you!” Matthias says cheerfully. He pauses, as Graves crosses the threshold, and looks out into the road. “Young Credence not coming along?”

“He prefers to stay home and write,” Graves says. It’s not a lie, not exactly, but the untruth definitely crept out. Matthias gives him a long look, but doesn’t pry. In a moment Graves is stepping into the emerald flames and saying, “Flourish and Blott’s in Diagon Alley!” and being pulled away.

Away from everything—and everyone—he should be staying for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-gummed envelopes were DEFINITELY in use by the early 1900s, and would have been easily available in 1932.


	16. Chapter 16

After the quiet of Godric’s Hollow, London is a little overwhelming. So many people, bustling about on all manner of errands! Graves keeps his head about him, though, and focuses on the matter at hand. He has a meeting with the managers of Flourish and Blott’s, which drags out through most of the morning. They discuss sales and stocks and things, which don’t interest Graves at all, and then the actual contents of books, which do.

Then there’s other business to take care of. Graves has to make a loan payment for Matthias at Gringotts, there are other smaller bookshops to explore, and there’s some shopping that needs to be done for magical things that can’t be purchased in Godric’s Hollow. For one thing, there’s no apothecary in the little town, and there are two large apothecaries here with other smaller stalls around the place; for another, he’s finally investing a proper cauldron. It’s not Graves’ favorite job, making potions, but he’s become rather better at it since moving in with Credence. The cauldron they owned was misplaced in the move, and he wants a better one now.

He can’t take his mind entirely off Credence, though.

When it’s nearly six o’clock. Graves takes his suitcase and turns for his final destination. The street is emptying out as visitors head for the Leaky Cauldron, shops begin to close up their windows, and residents head home. No one looks twice at Graves as he makes his way down the alley to the bakery.

He can see it from what seems like a mile off. A sign over the door proudly reads “Kowalski’s” in gold lettering, and in the last light of the day the wide windows gleam. As Graves approaches he sees that the displays have largely been emptied—it’s been a good business day, then. As he goes into the empty shop, a bell over the door jangles merrily.

Despite the empty displays, the smell of good things, of cinnamon and sugar and fruit and baking bread, fills the air. It’s clean and the colors are warm and the whole air seems suffused with pure friendliness. Graves can recognize the magic—the same magic that fills Newt’s suitcase—magic that can’t be cast from a wand. Magic that many wizards don’t understand. The magic is quite simply love—love of people, love of art, love of bounty and good food.

Graves goes to the counter. He hears conversation and the sound of pans clashing in the kitchen, but there’s no one else in the shop. He rings the bell and, a moment later, a well-dressed house elf trots out. “Sorry, sir, the bakery is nearly closed!” she chirps.

“I know,” Graves says, leaning on the counter as she hops up on a stool to get on eye level with him. “I’m here to see Jacob and Queenie—I think they expected me?”

“They didn’t tell Millie if they did,” the house elf says. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Percival Graves.” He extends a hand across the counter to shake. She does, with fragile long fingers, and blushes a little when he smiles.

It’s been a long time since Graves encountered anyone like Millie. There are house elves in America, all freed—American wizards don’t hold with the magical servitude still in abundance on the continent. Still, in his former position Graves had rarely come in contact with them except manning elevators, shoe-shine stations, or other similar positions. America still has a long way to go.

“Millie will ask Mr. Kowalski about you,” Millie says. “Just a moment, sir!”

Graves waits as she scurries back into the kitchen. There’s a moment of bright conversation and then the sounds of cooking stop. Jacob comes out the door with an enormous smile on his face. “Graves!” he says, coming around the counter.

“Jacob!” Graves replies, accepting a tight hug. “It’s been too long.”

“It really has,” Jacob says, standing back and holding Graves at arm’s length for inspection. “You look exhausted.”

“It was a long trip,” Graves says. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Really, that doesn’t begin to cover it. But despite the exhaustion he brings up his walls anyway, preparing his Occlumency to meet Queenie. He doesn’t really want to answer uncomfortable questions tonight.

 

***

 

Of course, putting off the questions means that he has to answer them in the morning.

“Honey,” Queenie says as she sets breakfast on the table, “we got to talk.”

Graves winces. “Should I even bother giving my version of events…?”

“Yeah,” Jacob says. He’s already got flour on his cheek from early morning work in the bakery, and though he’s smiling his eyes are definitely serious. “Queenie said something went wrong with Credence.”

“It did,” Graves says. He steels his nerve. “He overheard our conversation.”

“Damn.”

Graves rubs his face. The chair scrapes as Queenie sits down, and it makes him jump a little. He’s—rightfully, he thinks—on edge. “The fight was over something so ridiculous. Worme wants to publish Credence’s essays in an anthology, Credence panicked about a surname, I offered mine again, and that’s when the shouting started.”

Jacob leans forward. “Wait, wait,” he says. “Offered your name—Graves, did you propose to him?”

“I’ve proposed five times, if conversations like that count,” Graves says wearily.

There’s dead silence in the kitchen for a long moment. Graves idly takes a sip of coffee and wonders just how he got in this position. Really, this is the worst possible situation.

“What’s wrong with your name exactly?” Jacob asks. He looks befuddled. Graves sympathizes.

“It’s…control,” he says with a helpless shrug. “Credence doesn’t want me to have hold over him.”

Queenie sighs. “He has a point, Jacob,” she says, forestalling anything Jacob might say as he opens his mouth. “I took your name but you see Tina didn’t take Newt’s. Names make you part of someone else in a way that just plain marriage don’t.”

“But Tina didn’t kick up a fuss about it,” Jacob points out.

Graves stares at his coffee cup. “It’s not Credence who’s forcing the issue,” he says. The words are heavy in his mouth. “It’s me.”

“Oh, honey…” Queenie says, soft and sympathetic and exasperated.

“I want him to be safe,” Graves says sharply, looking up at her. He looks at Jacob too. “He’s still vulnerable. Things haven’t been this hard for him in a long time and he needs every advantage he can get, my name—that’s an advantage. There are still people in the Ministry of Magic who respect what I was and would do things for him if he got in a tight spot.”

“You told him all this, right?” Jacob says.

“Yes,” Graves says, “and then the shouting started.”

Queenie is giving him a look. “Why did the shouting start?”

“He turned on that old record,” Graves says helplessly. “Self-loathing, pushing me away…”

Jacob shakes his head. Graves can’t meet his eyes anymore and looks out the window, away from the pity and frustration on his friend’s face. “You snapped first?”

“I told him what I thought,” Graves says. He stops, because words refuse to come out of his mouth anymore.

“He told Credence that he thought Credence was getting better,” Queenie fills in.

The words sound so simple and harmless, but knowing Credence—knowing how damaged he is, how hard he’s worked to improve, how far he has yet to go—they’re nearly unforgivable.

Queenie has the same thoughts, or perhaps she’s voicing Graves’: “I bet he felt like you were giving up on him.”

“That’s when he said he’d heard our conversation,” he says. “Called himself a monster.”

“Tina said that, not you.”

“Credence doesn’t seem to care,” Graves says.


	17. Chapter 17

It takes until dinner the following night for someone to broach the subject again. Graves spends the morning in a meeting, has lunch with a publisher—not Worme, Giles Corey forbid that Graves have to speak to Credence’s own publisher on this trip to London—and rounds out the day walking London’s streets aimlessly in search of some kind of inspiration for what to do now.

Queenie has produced a truly delicious dinner that night, one so detailed that Graves thinks that between the ostentatious menu and the lines tight around her eyes that it might be the product of stress cooking. Individual cheese souffles in ramekins, spring onions on toast, browned parsnips, olives and sliced fresh radishes, and rhubarb Betty for dessert.

“Look,” Jacob says five minutes into the uncomfortable dinner, “Graves. Did you ever apologize to Credence for all of that?”

Graves finishes his bite of toast before speaking. “I didn’t know how.”

“Can’t blame you,” Jacob says.

Queenie, chin in her hand, pokes idly at her parsnips with her fork. “You’ve got to do it when you get home,” she says. “Ain’t got a choice.”

“I won’t avoid it,” Graves says firmly. He pauses. “I just don’t know how to begin.”

“Graves, honey…” Queenie sighs.

Jacob shakes his head. “Ain’t impossible to do. Tell him what you feel.”

Graves looks out the window, mentally composing. “Sounds good,” Queenie says. “Why don’t you say it to us?”

“All right,” Graves says. “I need to apologize…for not being patient. Forgetting to be compassionate even though I don’t, can’t, understand. For losing my temper as violently as I did.”

“That sounds good,” Jacob says. “Credence is a clear thinker, he’ll get it.”

As clear as day, Graves can see Credence’s quiet panic as Graves turned away from Credence to head for London. “I hope he does,” he says. He replaces that image with one of Credence smiling, happy, fine. “No, I know he will.”

Queenie gives Graves a long look. “Ain’t anyone expecting you to be patient all the time,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“I expect it,” Graves says, with a weary shrug.

 

***

 

The rest of his time in London is a blur as it goes past. Graves actually enjoys being in Diagon Alley, and spending time with Queenie and Jacob. He talks to more people on that three-day trip than he has in perhaps years. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming.

Friday passes by easily, but the evening finds him restless. He’s scheduled to take the Floo tomorrow morning, but Graves almost can’t wait. He paces the flat for hours, nervous as a cat, until finally Jacob stops him. “Hey,” he says. “We got a Floo.”

It takes a moment, but then Graves realizes. He claps Jacob on the shoulder. “I’ll pack quickly,” he says. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes before he’s giving Queenie and Jacob each a hug and stepping into the emerald flames, delivering the address of the bookshop.

The streets of Godric’s Hollow are empty as Graves rushes home. It’s pitch dark and he lights his way with his wand; in it, he sees a small boreal owl perching on a post watching him. Unusual in Godric’s Hollow, it’s not a local species and it’s a small one, besides. But he doesn’t tarry.

There’s a single light on in the house as Graves comes up to the door. The study: Credence must be up late working again. Graves feels a lightness in his feet that buoys him up the steps and through the front door. He shuts it behind him, and in the few steps he takes into the hall he hears footsteps running for the stairs above.

Graves looks up the stairs just in time to see Credence slide around the turn, nearly break his head open on the wall, and pitch himself down the stairs three at a time. Graves has just time to move as Credence hits the bottom step and trips—

—to land right in Graves’ arms.

For a second it’s silent. Graves feels like he’s breathing for the first time in a week. Credence is safe and warm and alive in his arms and he couldn’t be happier.

“I’m so sorry,” Credence says, at the same time that Graves says, “I need to apologize—”

They look at each other. They laugh. Graves rests his forehead on Credence’s shoulder and Credence buries his nose in Graves’ hair. Everything is going to be all right.

They’ve only ever had a real reunion twice before: once after Graves’ brush with death in 1926 and after Credence visited London in 1930. To Graves’ surprise, he finds that he likes this. He likes the sense of being back together. It’s different, and it’s good.

“It’s three in the morning,” Graves points out, taking a step back and studying Credence. There are ink stains on his fingers, his hair is extremely mussed, and his clothes are so crumpled that Graves is compelled to ask—“Are those yesterday’s clothes?”

“I had a busy night,” Credence says sheepishly. He picks up Graves’ suitcase with one hand and offers his other with a smile. “You look like you need sleep. Come on.”

Graves can practically feel the dark circles under his eyes and the crease between his brows. He is aware that he needs sleep. He takes Credence’s hand and follows him upstairs. Upon seeing the clock, Graves is surprised: he thought “three in the morning” was hyperbole. It wasn’t. He hadn’t really looked at a clock all night, between the pacing and that long walk.

They don’t bother undressing properly. Graves throws his coat, scarf, and jacket over the back of the chair and kicks off his shoes; Credence divests him of his vest in the name of comfort before Graves can lie down. No buttons, when they’ll end up piled on top of each other in the night.

Credence curls up on his side, posture loose and relaxed. Graves hits the bed with a heavy sigh, rolling onto his side facing Credence. Between them, one of his hands rests atop Credence’s.

“So,” Credence says.

“Which of us goes first?”

“Neither?” Credence suggests weakly.

Graves smiles faintly. “I’d like that.”

Credence sighs, shoulders visibly heaving. “I shouldn’t have panicked like I did,” he says. “It was unfair. I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want what you’re offering, it’s that I can’t accept it yet.”

“Yet?” Graves didn’t expect his voice to be so soft.

“Someday,” Credence says.

It really doesn’t surprise Graves that he can’t summon up any words. He simply laces their fingers together. After a moment, he says, “My turn?”

Credence smiles a crooked little smile. “I already forgave you.”

Graves shakes his head, the pillow rustling. “You’re too kind for your own good,” he chastises. “I shouldn’t have been so angry with you. You were upset, and I…made it worse.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Credence points out.

“I did,” Graves says. He gazes into Credence’s dark eyes and is relieved to find them clear. “I might not be able to understand…why you struggle with this. But I should be patient anyway, and I wasn’t, and I hurt you. You might have forgiven me, but I haven’t forgiven myself.”

Credence brushes loose strands of hair from Graves’ eyes “Give forgiveness a chance, sometime,” he says. “The world’s heaped sufficient punishment on you already. Stop hurting yourself, Percival.”

“I haven’t done anything in the last week to deserve this.”

“I’m not going to lie,” Credence says. “I _am_ hurt. But…if a man causes grief, ye ought rather to forgive him, and comfort him, lest perhaps such a one should be swallowed up with overmuch.”

There’s a beat of silence. Graves rummages through everything he’s read of Credence’s Bible, trying to remember where he’d read that familiar phrase. “Ah…First Corinthians?” he hazards.

“Close,” Credence says, eyes widening. “Second. You’ve been doing your homework.”

“I’m trying to understand you a little better,” Graves says. He shifts up onto one elbow and leans in to kiss Credence on the forehead.

“Are we all right?” Credence asks, looking up at Graves

“I’m still here,” Graves says. “So are you. I think we’re fine.”

They are.

“Remind me,” Credence says drowsily as they drift off to sleep curled close to each other, “to tell you about the letter tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dinner menu comes from “Aunt Sammy's Radio Recipes Revised” (Bureau of Home Economics, U.S. Department of Agriculture—Government Printing Office: Washington).


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read "the detour," "the recruit," "the professor," and "the revelation" to pick up the thread of something that's mentioned in this chapter.

Credence told Graves to remember something last night and, by morning, Graves has entirely forgotten what it was.

It’s around nine o’clock when Graves wakes up. Credence’s head is tucked under his chin and his hands rest on Graves’ chest. Graves has Credence in his arms and their legs are tangled together. It’s very, very soothing.

“Welcome back,” Credence says muzzily as Graves shifts and stretches a bit.

“I’m glad I’m back,” Graves says. He yawns. For someone who made a career out of getting up early, he’s really bad at waking up. “Are you…”

Credence smooths Graves’ rumpled shirt. “I’m fine,” he says. “Better now that you’re here.”

Graves rolls his eyes and smiles wryly. “And better now that I’m not yelling.”

“That too,” Credence says, and Graves hears him smiling.

“Queenie and Jacob were very displeased with my conduct,” Graves informs Credence.

“Oh?”

Graves winces. “They scolded me a bit.”

“Father Anning scolded me, for what it’s worth.”

“You…talked to the priest?”

Credence nudges Graves lightly. “I didn’t say we were wizards,” he says. “I ended up in the church, and he gave me some counsel. Told me I needed to apologize and explain myself.”

Rather moved, Graves moves to kiss Credence. “You,” he says, between one kiss and the next, “are not broken. And you are getting better. I see it every day. I will _never_ say something like that again.”

Credence curls his fingers in Graves’ shirt. “I’m sorry I lost my temper like that,” he says. “You were trying to help. You do. I’ll talk to you, next time, instead of…that.”

It's almost eleven by the time that they finally get up. Credence, citing how irritating his overlong hair feels this morning, drags himself out of bed with great reluctance. Graves follows, rubbing a hand over his jaw and making faces at the two-day stubble. It didn’t annoy Credence, but Graves can’t stand it.

There’s a certain dance that occurs in the bathroom, mornings like this. Because of Credence’s permanent aversion to being submerged in water, he has to wash his hair over the tub—usually getting water all over the floor, to Graves’ endless irritation—and that means kneeling next to it. With legs as long as his are, he takes up half the floor, and has to be careful not to kick Graves, who is shaving mere inches away. It would be a bad morning if Graves stabbed himself in the neck.

Between all the minor acrobatics involved in the morning—because they eventually have to switch since Graves is firm in wanting a bath and Credence does want to shave—they make it downstairs round about noon. Lunch is just sandwiches, which they make and eat without speaking. It’s good for Graves to just be there. It’s good to feel like this is home again.

In the afternoon Credence drifts away, as he usually does, saying something about finishing off an essay. He goes to the dining room to write, leaving Graves to the study where he can work on some of the accounting he needs to do for Matthias.

Graves brings in all the papers to sort, and he’s just getting them out when he notices a sealed envelope sitting on the desk. Curious, and something about a letter ringing a bell, Graves picks it up and looks it over. In refined handwriting, on the back, is written “Credence.” And the seal—

The letter falls to the desk and Graves just stares at it for a moment.

With shaking hands, he picks it up and walks downstairs to the dining room. He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching Credence scrawling away. “…Credence?”

 “Yes?” Credence says without looking up.

“Do you have a moment?”

Credence looks up, twisting around in his chair to see Graves. His eyes light on the envelope. “Oh, I forgot about that,” he says. “I was in the graveyard last night, just walking, when a little boreal owl came and dropped that on me.”

Four steps bring Graves to the table. Without a word he drops the envelope in front of Credence, and in the clear light from the windows they can see the impression of the seal clearly. It’s a line bisecting a circle inside a triangle. Grindelwald’s seal.

“No,” Credence whispers.

“Did you realize—”

Credence shakes his head violently. “If I had I would have just burned it.”

They stare at the envelope, so innocuous, in total silence.

“We should read it,” Graves says at last.

Tentatively, as if the paper will bite him, Credence takes the envelope and cracks the seal. Two halves of the sigil fall away from the paper in a clean break. The wax makes a small clatter on the table and the paper rustles as Credence unfolds it.

 

_My Dearest, Credence,_

_I apologize for the abruptness of this writing. I have only recently been informed that you have installed yourself near a relation of mine. I am sure that my Great-Aunt Bathilda has made herself known to you—tell me, did you enjoy the Cauldron Cakes? She makes them for everyone who passes through Godric’s Hollow, no matter how short the stay._

_It is strangely appropriate that you have come to Godric’s Hollow at last. It seems that nearly every notable wizard who comes to Europe must pass through that hallowed place eventually. For all his faults, the great Godric Gryffindor was born there, one of the greatest wizards of our time lived there, and another miracle child lived there as well_ _. And of course I have lived there. Did Dumbledore not tell you of this? I am sure that if he did, he did not tell you all._

_Credence, I am sure that you have guessed that there is a great deal of secrecy surrounding the life and lies of Albus Dumbledore. If my sweet owl found you where I anticipated, then you know that his sister Ariana Dumbledore lies buried in the church yard. And I think that my Great-Aunt would have sent the owl when you passed the gate. It’s a subtle trick of the spell, twisting the Imperius Curse to plant seeds of an action in someone’s mind without allowing them to realize it has happened. Quite experimental. I anticipate a wider range of uses of this curse in the future._

_But I digress. I wish to tell you a story, Credence, and though I know that you have no reason to listen to a word I say after the fool I made of myself the last time we were face to face I do believe that you will hear me. You are rightfully suspicious of those who would seek to control you—myself included!—and I tell you now that Albus Dumbledore seeks to control you. His denials mean nothing, for he is the greatest liar in the whole of the world._

_An omission is a lie, my dear boy, and make no mistake about that. Here is what Albus has omitted: his sister was just like you. Yes, Ariana was an Obscurial. She was as sweet and kind and innocent as you, though not quite as miraculous. You see, she died._

_Albus and I were friends once, and we agreed quite wholeheartedly on many things. We knew that wizards did not deserve to live in the shadows, that the world must be put to rights. He disagreed—perhaps rightly, though I have not changed my stance—with my methods, but we were the greatest of friends for that one glorious summer_ _. Our futures were bright. We would have brought wizards into the light, into the truth of our power, refuting limitation and seeing the glories of freedom. I loved Albus. We were—are—alike in so many ways. At the time, we were as the Dioscuri, the brightest twins of Gemini, living emblems of immortality and death._

 _But what is the point of nostalgia? We cannot go back to the fateful day and try again, even with a Time-Turner. There was a duel, when Albus and I disagreed on how best to proceed, and in that duel someone struck the poor girl with a deadly spell. We do not know, to this day, who was responsible. It may have been Albus, or his sordid brother_ _—unimportant to any story worth telling—or even myself. I took flight, for Albus would have none of me then: I hear his words still._

_I am sure it suited Albus’ sense of irony to send you to live near his sister’s grave, just as I am sure that you would be drawn to such a hallowed place of power, as I was so drawn. Our lives are forever entwined, my dear Credence, by fate or by circumstance. I must apologize for my conduct in New York. It was reprehensible behavior, and something I should not wish to repeat. You were, and remain, a miracle._

_My dear, I only want the best for you. I want a world where children like you and Ariana might be free of the constraints that caused you to become what you are. Not that I regret you—not for a moment! You are singular, unique in the original sense of the word. Your power is beyond even my prodigious imagination. Together, you and I can change the world._

_Certainly, dear Percival will have something to say about this letter. You have most likely already shared it with him, and I agree wholly with his concerns. He will say that I ask you to become a killer, that we will go to war on the entire world, that I am a danger to you. And on all of these counts he would be correct. But, my miraculous boy, there are sacrifices that must be made, if we are to achieve the best of all possible worlds. A world without hate or fear, a world where wizards stand in their rightful place, where no child will ever be hurt again. Is that not a world for which any sacrifice can be made? Think upon this, Credence, and decide for yourself what sacrifices you will be willing to make in the days to come._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Gellert Grindelwald_

 

Already, Graves is trying to put the pieces together. The Dumbledore family had lived in Godric’s Hollow. So what? So Dumbledore himself had sent Credence and Graves to live here. Not directly, but he’d insinuated and suggested and of course they’d settled here because it really is a good place for wizards looking for quiet and privacy to stay. Why had the Dumbledores lived here? A similar reason of danger? What had driven them here?

“Do you buy it?” he asks after a long moment.

Credence sets down the letter and looks up at Graves. “Of course not! I would never just jump in with a murderer who—”

“I mean about the Dumbledores,” Graves says. “That the sister is buried here.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

The flowing script of the letter seems to taunt them. “Well?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It makes sense,” Credence says. “Dumbledore was the one who recommended Godric’s Hollow in the first place. Grindelwald’s great-aunt apparently lives here and is apparently Bathilda Bagshot. Ariana Dumbledore _died_ here. If he knew it was safe for an Obscurial to hide, though, it would make sense even if he didn’t want to explain why.”

Graves folds his arms. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“You know—if Ariana Dumbledore was an Obscurial, that’s how Grindelwald knew what to look for,” Credence says. “In me. That’s how he recognized the signs.”

For a moment, Graves thinks of what she might have been like, that dead girl who was just like Credence. Of course Grindelwald would have tried to use her. She was vulnerable and hurt, and something in Graves _aches_ for her.

“Hell,” Graves says under his breath. “Where do we go from here?”

Credence runs his fingers through his hair. “We should go to London,” he says. “The others will want to know what’s happened.”

“Nothing has happened,” Graves says. His nerves are twanging and practically searing with inaction. “That’s the problem. It’s just a damn _letter_ , not an emergency.”

Credence gets to his feet. He takes Graves’ hand in his. “It came from Grindelwald. I think it’s enough to qualify as an emergency,” he says.

“Good thing I didn’t unpack, at least,” Graves says. “We should take a little time to prepare, this doesn’t seem like an imminent threat. Sounds more like what he did to Queenie—setting a pawn in motion across the board.”

Credence’s eyes, clear and dark, are narrow. It’s nice to see them normal, and not white. “Yes. I’m still worried. We’ll go tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is apparently the hygiene chapter. Let’s start with toothpaste! The boys probably do, in fact, use Colgate toothpaste—with soap in it! It may also have contained fluoride. 
> 
> I am the unfortunate deliverer of bad news: if you’re aiming at historical accuracy, then you probably shouldn’t be writing shower sex for any pairing in this fandom. Although there WERE showers in many places during the 1920s, and their use was increasingly popular, in America specifically they didn’t come into widespread use until the 50’s or 60’s. Until that point, the “shower bath” was fairly unusual. As usual, rural areas were the last to see the widespread implementation of new technologies. 
> 
> Resources for Great Britain were bizarrely limited and I couldn’t find much on the specifics of shower implementation. Therefore, given what I’ve got, I have taken the position that in Godric’s Hollow you would probably not have a shower, let alone a shower bath. Ergo, there’s no shower, just a bathtub, which—as we saw back in _a better mirror_ with the Infamous Bathtub Accident—isn’t filled by a tap, but by “Aguamenti” and a heating charm to keep the water warm. 
> 
> “the best of all possible worlds”—Grindelwald is quoting Muggle writer/philosopher Voltaire’s novel “Candide”. Funnily enough, the entire thing is a refutation of the statement that “all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds”. The philosopher Leibniz proposed that our world is the best, despite all misery and tragedy, because we don’t have the deific foresight of God to understand why things occur. Voltaire thought this was utter bullshit and wrote an entire novel where Candide endures untold misery (while Voltaire takes shots at EVERY major figure of the time) and ends up rejecting the philosophy. In essence, this statement is a reflection of a kind of complacency that injustice and evil exist because they are NECESSARY and cannot be avoided.
> 
> Grindelwald’s boreal owl is a joke in Latin. Its name is _Aegolius funereus_ , which refers to a bird of ill omen and a funeral. What an owl for the Pineapple Man, eh?
> 
> The boreal owl is, despite its name, a stupendously cute bird. Here’s a library of its calls: https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Boreal_Owl/sounds


	19. Chapter 19

It turns out that Credence was right to be worried.

It’s three o’clock that afternoon, and they’re reading over the letter again in the study while they wait for a response from Queenie and Jacob saying all’s well in London and to come to the bakery. Both men startle when someone starts pounding on the front door downstairs. As one, Credence and Percival have their wands out and are at the top of the stairs, ready for someone to come through.

“Damn it, let me _in_!”

“Is that…Theseus?” Credence asks, staring down the steps.

“Or someone pretending to be him,” Graves says grimly, descending the stairs to stand in front of the door. He raises his voice. “We’re not opening the door unless you can prove you’re Theseus.”

Theseus sounds like he’s spitting mad. “Merlin’s bloody beard—I’m me!”

Credence, impatient as ever, pushes past Graves to open the door. Graves suppresses his initial irritation: this is bad, very bad, and they don’t have time to dither. Theseus, looking wild, steps into the hall. His wand is drawn, too, and he’s got a newspaper flapping in one hand.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Graves demands.

In answer, Theseus simply holds up a copy of the Daily Prophet. _GRINDELWALD ATTACKS ROME_ , the headline trumpets. Credence pulls the paper from his hands. There’s a picture right below the headline, of buildings crumbling and wizards dueling and…a great cloud of roiling smoke and fire, lashing out at everything in sight.

“Oh God,” Credence says, eyes wide, swaying on his feet.

“Steady on,” Theseus says, one hand clamping down on Credence’s shoulder.

“Is that an Obscurus?” Graves demands, taking the paper himself and staring at the paper.

“That’s what reports are saying,” Theseus says. “And we don’t have time for more talk.”

Credence is utterly frozen. “They’re coming for me.”

Theseus nods. “Newt’s been called in as a Special Consultant for the Creature Division because of his experience. The others would have come for you but it’s clear they’re all being watched.”

“Damn,” Graves mutters. He turns, points his wand up the stairs, and commands, “Accio suitcases!” There’s a madness of clunking as the two cases come tumbling down the stairs to them.

“Where are we going?” Credence asks Theseus.

“I called in a friend I trust,” Theseus says. “No one will expect that. They don’t even know I’ve got involved, let alone him.”

Graves hands Credence his suitcase. “Then let’s get moving.”

They don’t Apparate—no, they use the Floo network, which Theseus and Graves conspired to illegally link to the house while Credence wasn’t looking. Credence gives the emerald flames a grimace when they appear, but there’s no time for talk or explanations. Theseus gives the address—300 Mornington Crescent—and goes through first. Graves pushes Credence forward and Credence steps into the fireplace. Then, after a last regretful look around the house, Graves follows.

He emerges from the fireplace into a well-appointed room. It looks like Credence inhaled ash again, given how Theseus is thumping him on the back as he coughs, but that’s of no immediate concern.

“Glad we installed that,” he says to Theseus, brushing ash off his sleeve.

“So am I.” Theseus crouches next to the fireplace, extinguishes the fire, and mutters incantations over it, dismantling the connection. “No one can track you now, even if they know about the Floo.”

Credence offers a hand to pull Theseus to his feet. “Nice job on having a safe house ready to go.”

“‘Safe’,” Graves scoffs. “And who’s this friend you trust so—” He turns and stops. There’s a man standing in the doorway. He’s about as tall as Graves, around the same age or perhaps a little older, very stylishly dressed, with round glasses and honey-blond hair.

And Graves knows him.

“Hello, Percy,” James says with a smile.

For a moment, Graves is frozen. It seems as if he blinks and is across the room, giving James the tightest hug he can imagine. “I had no idea!”

“Theseus gave me about half an hour’s warning,” James says, squeezing Graves tight.

“Did you know we were in England?” Graves asks, holding James at arms’ length to study him.

James grins, that good old smile that Graves knows so well. The one that makes Graves smile in return, even if it doesn’t feel like he should at this moment of crisis. “I found out half an hour ago.”

Suddenly Graves remembers that they aren’t the only two in the room. He lets go of James and turns to Credence. “Let me introduce you to James McGuiness,” he says.

James shakes Credence’s hand. “Pleasure,” he says. “Theseus speaks highly of you.”

“If I’m going to be honest,” Credence says bluntly, “I have no idea who you are.”

James laughs. “Percy—you explain.”

Graves looks at James, unable to contain his nostalgic fondness. It feels ridiculous when they just fled their house with Aurors hot on their heels _again_ , but he can’t contain it. “James and I used to be together, back before I was Director.”

Credence’s eyes pop wide. “ _That_ James?”

“That James,” Graves confirms.

As they exit the room, already talking of other matters, Graves can only wonder at the fact that, tonight, the entire world turned upside down.

 

***

 

Theseus departs almost immediately. He tells them that he’ll keep information flowing and deflect suspicion as best he can. He also promises to keep an eye on Tina, Newt, Young Theseus, Jacob, and Queenie. Graves only threatens to hex him if he lets anyone get hurt once, which Theseus takes in stride as he leaves.

When the initial blush of reunion is over, James and Graves are all business. The house is safe, but both of them want to make it safer. They can’t afford any kind of surveillance catching Credence here when they’re off-guard.

There’s a bit of awkwardness, but the fact that they were Aurors together—something _else_ together—rather greases the wheels. After just a few minutes they’re nearly as synchronized as they used to be, when they were partners. They cast wards and spells almost without consulting each other, finish each other’s sentences, laugh at shared memories that Graves had nearly forgotten.

Credence, visibly confused, follows them like a shadow as Graves reinforces all of James’ wards and James recounts everything he knows from his Ministry contacts. The Supreme Mugwump, the Egyptian witch Neferiset, gave the order to apprehend Credence herself. American Aurors are Portkeying into the Ministry to bolster the ranks of British Aurors; it’s rumored that President Rovius Grimsditch himself will be here eventually. Everyone is under surveillance—James confirmed that with Ministry contacts after Theseus left to collect Credence and Graves.

And it all makes Graves very impatient.

When Graves has satisfied himself that the house is thoroughly warded and James has run out of news to tell, they sit idly in James’ study. James behind his desk, Graves and Credence in front of it. The room is not set up for casual visitors.

And that’s when Graves’ nerves get the better of him, and he starts to construct plans of action, with Credence and James giving input. He raises the idea of getting hold of Newt’s suitcase at one point. At another, he considers the feasibility of calling on Chairwoman Ya Zhou to convince her to grant them asylum again, since even if she’s an uncertain ally she’s an ally all the same. He contemplates booking passage on a No-Maj ship, or stealing broomsticks, or enchanting a car to fly.

Essentially, Graves just wants to get the hell out of the country.

“If we have to run, we’ve done it before,” Graves says, when Credence tells him to stop.

“We can’t go without the others,” Credence says firmly. “Which means we aren’t leaving yet.”

“The Wizengamot will want their testimony when it’s found out that you two disappeared,” James says. “It might be safer for them—”

“England, unlike America, doesn’t allow for summary executions,” Graves says. He sighs and rubs his face with his palms. Credence is right, of course; they can’t just leave without everyone else. “And remember, it won’t be trial, it’ll be testimony.”

“Besides, if they’ve got Newt as a creature expert instead of a collaborator, there’s got to be reasonable doubt that I’m responsible,” Credence says. Smart man: Graves had completely forgotten about Newt’s position in all of this.

James studies him. “Are you? Responsible, that is?”

“No,” Credence says. He looks haunted and the shadows tremble. “It was someone else.”

“I just wonder why Theseus got to you first,” James says. He takes off his glasses, untucks the hem of his shirt, and polishes them absently. “The warrant went out, he came here, and then…well, how come the Ministry didn’t get to you first?”

Graves makes a face. “Much as I hate to say it, Dumbledore is probably pushing in our favor.”

“I bet,” James says. “In any case, it’s not like this is worth worrying over until we hear from Theseus again.”

“No, it’s really not,” Credence says.

There’s a long silence. The instruments James keeps in a glass cabinet tick and whirr. Graves drums his fingers on the arm of the chair; James watches the windows contemplatively. Credence is still, staring at his hands in his lap; the shadows still shiver.

Finally, James shakes himself. “Well. You’ve been up to a hell of a lot, Percy.”

“We have,” Graves says. He glances wryly at Credence. “I find myself longing for Russia.”

“Is that where you two were hiding?” James asks.

Graves smiles and Credence, despite his justifiable melancholy, smiles back. “Yes,” Graves says. “Only just got to England.”

James looks severely disgruntled. “I’m still irked that I only found out you were here _tonight_ because Theseus announced he’d be dragging wanted fugitives to my house. I thought that illegal Floo was for someone else! Theseus has another client who might need a fast way out…of course he didn’t tell me where the other end of it was…”

“As a consolation, he didn’t tell me where it went when we installed it,” Graves says.

Credence rolls his eyes. “As an even further consolation, neither of them even told me that it existed,” he says. James and Graves both laugh at his expression, and Credence smiles.

“You’d have come and seen us sooner if you knew we were here, I hope,” Graves says.

“I would have. I needed to see that you were alive, after twenty-six,” James says. A look passes between them. Of course James would have heard the news, that Graves had been replaced by Grindelwald, and recovered only by the near-miracle that is Tina Goldstein’s impossible willpower. But the moment passes, and James looks at Credence with an infectious grin. “And I needed to meet the man who finally got you to settle down.”

“What?” Credence asks, smiling but obviously taken aback.

“You got Percival Graves, the _legendary_ Sisyphus of the Auror Office, never done with his paperwork, to become _domestic_ ,” James says. “How did you manage _that_?”

“He’s still a bit of a Sisyphus,” Credence assures James. “Only now it’s not obsession with paperwork that never gets done, it’s forever cleaning the kitchen.”

“Hey!” Graves objects.

James winces. “I feel awful for you, Credence. I used to have to drag him out of the office at the end of the day—can’t imagine his office being in the house!”

Credence laughs. “You’ll be jealous to know that I don’t have to drag him anywhere,” Credence says a little smugly. “I just have to beckon.”

“Well, there’s good reason for that,” Graves says over James’ laughter.

“You two are meant for each other,” James says fondly, looking between Credence and Graves.

At that Credence looks surprised, but Graves had been hoping to hear it. He takes Credence’s hand. “I’d be inclined to agree.”

“What…?” Credence asks.

“I’m not the type to pine jealously,” James says, reassuring. “I’m just glad to see Percy happy.”

“I didn’t expect…” Credence starts.

James shakes his head. “It’s been twelve years, this is Europe, and I am an attractive, wealthy, charismatic man.”

Graves snorts. “And a humble man, clearly.”

“It’s not vanity if it’s true,” James says without missing a beat. “Anyway—my poor first rebound had a time of it, me crying over Percy’s picture every time I got drunk.”

Graves nearly smacks himself on the forehead. “Of course you did that. You should have gone into melodrama, you’d have made millions.”

“I was heartbroken!” James says, rolling his eyes expressively. “But anyway, I’ve had too many good lovers to think about jealousy. Take Theseus, for example—”

“ _Theseus_?”

“ _Theseus_?”

Credence and Graves are equally shocked, it seems.

Now James looks smug. “Likes men and women both, does our Theseus. And I’ve got a type.”

“What—reckless Aurors with dark eyes?” Credence asks.

“Got that right,” James says, smiling at Graves, soft and nostalgic.  

There’s a pause, and then Graves says quietly, “It’s good to know that you’ve been happy.”

“Life’s been good to me,” James says. He looks them both over again. “From what I hear, it’s been less so to you.”

“It’ll get better soon enough,” Graves says. He squeezes Credence’s hand and feels Credence relax, just a little. “Credence and I just have a little way to go, that’s all.”

James nods slowly. “It’ll be a hell of a fight,” he says. “But you don’t have to go it all alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornington Crescent is something of a joke. It's a game featured on the comedy show "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue," which airs on BBC Radio 4. The goal is to move from a location (just about anywhere in the world) to the Mornington Crescent station, but it's literally...well, it's Calvinball. The rules and legality of each move made by the participants is completely on-the-spot improvised, so the game is completely incomprehensible. To get to Mornington Crescent is a disaster of comic improvisation and it's utterly hilarious. 
> 
> Therefore, James lives on a street named for the station. 
> 
> Because the Floo system is a disaster of comic improvisation.
> 
>  _I_ think I'm funny. :D
> 
> You’re going to want to go read “the aurors”, “the florida case”, and “the veyshnoria case”, as well as Chapter 23 and Chapter 31 of “a better mirror” to understand who James is, if this isn’t clear enough.
> 
> I mentioned a looooooooooong time ago that Egypt, as a country containing one of the oldest magical traditions, retains its powerful status in the modern world. There’s a dissertation here on the history of Egypt (there were a lot of invasions, okay, I feel like the magical traditions would be fascinating just because of the constant culture clash) but that’s for another time. For now: Supreme Mugwump Neferiset.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late posting! I had Chaos consume my life for the weekend (yay for total mental implosions!) but I am BACK and BETTER THAN EVER.
> 
> I'm also probably entering a mixed episode and am going to be weirdly manic for the next few weeks but eh, it'll get me through finals.

It’s three days before they hear from Theseus again. James has news daily—he no longer works in government, but he knows enough people to pull plenty of strings to uncover hidden information. One day it’s about the arrival of President Grimsditch in Paris sparking a riot, the next it’s a showdown before the Wizengamot between Dumbledore and Minister of Magic over the possibility that Grindelwald has found a second Obscurial. (In Dumbledore's defense, he is resoundingly on Credence's side; Graves finds a bit more respect for the man after that.) The Daily Prophet reports an arrest of a cell of Grindelwald’s supporters in Madrid. Half of South America abstains from a vote on international security measures as they call for the ICW to present its support for the traditional magic Grindelwald promises to defend. Ya Zhou calls for order and unity, but there's only so much even she can do. 

It feels as if the world is coming apart at the seams.

Graves is on edge. He can’t get the images of the Obscurus out of his head, can’t stop envisioning the child that Grindelwald is using as a weapon. It’s sickening, to know that some other innocent child fell into Grindelwald’s hands, to cage and abuse and turn into a weapon.

“We need to practice,” Credence says, on the third day in James’ house. He and Graves are alone again: James is off with Theseus, doing God only knows what.

Graves looks at Credence for a long moment. He’s noticed how twitchy Credence has been, moving sharply when doors open or there are any noises outside the window. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Credence says. He swallows hard and looks away out the window. “We…have to be ready, I can’t be caught off-guard if you and I have to take Grindelwald on again.”

“Fair enough,” Graves says. He stands up and pulls off his jacket, folding it absentmindedly over one arm. “And where will we practice?”

Credence leads the way into the dining room. “James helped me clear it this morning,” he says over his shoulder. “And helped me ward the walls in case the Obscurus gets twitchy while we’re fighting, so I don’t break the house.”

“James always was smart,” Graves says. He rolls up his sleeves, watching Credence with narrowed eyes. He’s handling his wand with proficiency, of course, but Credence has never once fought with a wand in real combat. They’ve dueled before, but not in a while, and Graves feels slightly unprepared to test Credence’s skill. But here they are, and this might be the only rehearsal they get before something more serious happens.

He gives Credence no warning. He simply whips out his wand, aiming right for Credence’s head, trusting that if things go really wrong the Obscurus will act. Before the Blasting Curse can leave his wand Credence is sending out a _shockwave_ of a Shield Charm. The two spells meet, cancel, and the fight is on.

This is no formal duel. It’s a real fight and both of them could get seriously hurt. It’s necessary. On the battlefields they might face there won’t be time for bowing and preparing. So Graves hits Credence with everything he has, and Credence returns the favor.

They are, roughly, equally matched. Credence lacks variation in his spells, disliking combat as a general rule, but he makes up for it in raw power of spells and in reaction of casting. Graves has more variation and a significant amount of experience that makes up for slower reflexes.

Credence hurls Shield Charms so powerful they’re nearly offensive spells on their own, but Graves finds the way to cancel them best is with a Blasting Curse. Between those he’s hurling other spells that Credence narrowly dodges, and dodging the Stunning Spells Credence sends his way.

With every step they circle the room. Graves’ goal is to close the distance between himself and Credence, to put Credence back on his heels, knock him off guard. Unlike many wizards, Graves is unafraid of close combat.

“ _Herbivicus_!” Credence shouts suddenly, aiming his wand at the floor and sending a blast of green light rippling over it.

Graves has half a second to think— _oh, damn!_ —as the floor erupts into a sea of plants. Credence’s magic likes making things grow: that sealed and polished hardwood floor wouldn’t have responded to anyone but him. And now the grasses and vines are twisting up, growing mad and out of control, and Graves is tripping on them.

He staggers, tripping and going down on one knee, and only barely gets up a Shield Charm as Credence comes in hard with a spell Graves recognizes as a Gouging Spell. The plants—Graves suspects a Finite Incantatem won’t work, not when he’s fighting Credence’s magic, so he goes the next best thing.

“Diffindo!” he snaps, sweeping his wand in a wide arc. It’s like running a lawn mower across the room: every plant in the arc is slashed into pieces and ceases to grow. They’ve got a free field again and even if Graves has to roll out of the way of another Stunning Spell it feels a lot better this way.

And now Credence is on the defensive. He’s run out his limited arsenal of dueling spells and Graves can track all his moves. Graves pushes forward, enduring the shockwaves of overpowered Shield Charms as Credence desperately tries to hammer him back.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Graves’ wand goes flying. He makes a desperate grasp for it, misses, and realizes he’s wide open for Credence to strike. He turns, hands up and ready to cast a wandless Shield Charm, realizes that Credence has hesitated, and launches himself physically into Credence, knocking him down with a simple tackle.

Wizards never expect their opponents to get physical.

Credence’s wand rolls away too, and though Credence can cast wandless too—is, indeed, better without one—the fight still stops. Graves holds Credence down for a long moment, sudden anger simmering. “You missed that opening,” he says. “If we fight Grindelwald, then you _do not miss it_.”

“I won’t,” Credence says quietly.

Graves sighs, letting go of the anger, and pulls Credence to his feet. “That was good, though,” he says. “Nice job with the Herbivicus.”

“Thanks,” Credence says with a faint grin. “I panicked.”

“If that’s how you fight when you panic, then panic more,” Graves says, returning the grin.

Credence shakes his head. “Only you, Percival,” he says fondly. His hair has fallen down—the ribbon tying it back has gone missing, and he runs his hand through it absently.

Graves conjures one up, in the dark red Credence likes best, and steps behind Credence to tie his hair back. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Credence says again. He turns to Graves, serious once more. “If we fight Grindelwald…do you think I can stand up to him?”

For a moment, Graves considers that fight. “I think,” he says, “that you could. But if we fight Grindelwald, there will probably be a much bigger problem to deal with.”

Credence’s eyes go a little hazy-white. “The other Obscurus.”

“Yes.”

“And do you think I can stand up to that?”

“I think,” Graves says as he rolls down his sleeves, “that you’re probably quite a bit older and more disciplined than whoever Grindelwald has.”

Credence makes a slight face. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.” Graves begins to cast wordless Finite Incantatem at the plants still carpeting the room: no use in having James come home to this. But he can only take care of small sections at a time, which is…fascinating. Credence’s magic really does like to stick around.

“Oh, that’s comforting,” Credence says dryly, beginning his own clean-up of scorch marks on the walls. “You really have faith in me.”

“I have plenty of faith in you. But we won’t know until we confront Grindelwald what, exactly, that other Obscurial is capable of doing.”

“Yes, but—”

Credence is interrupted by one of the wards letting out an awful screech and the door banging open. Graves whips around, striding toward the door, and Credence is two steps behind. Someone unauthorized just broke into the house.

But it’s not who Graves expects. “Percival! Credence!” Newt calls.

“Here!” Credence calls back.

Newt and Theseus appear in the door of the dining room. They look deadly serious, but Graves still grabs Newt in a fierce hug. “Good to see you’re safe. Why are you here?” he asks, holding Newt by the shoulders.

“Things are—bad,” Newt says.

“The Supreme Mugwump wants Credence brought in for testimony to the ICW,” Theseus says.

The shadows shake and Credence shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Testimony? Not arrest?”

Newt nods. “Professor Dumbledore got your name cleared about the attack, but the ICW wants your testimony on Obscurials. How they might be controlled. What they can do.”

“Do they know where we are?” Graves demands tersely.

“They think you’re at Hogwarts,” Theseus says.

What?

“What?” Graves says. “How?”

“Ah…Percival, we…we used Polyjuice Potion to make Queenie and Jacob look like you and Credence,” Newt says softly. “I had some of both your hair. I’m very sorry…”

Dead silence falls over the hallway. Credence is looking at Graves in half a panic, Newt looks so apologetic, Theseus confused, and the hallway is getting strangely long and there are dark dots swarming before his eyes—

And the next thing Graves knows, he’s lying on the floor.

He blinks, confused, looking up at Credence.

Credence brushes Graves’ hair back from his face. “Are you with me?”

Oh.

He passed out.

“Still here,” Graves says raggedly. “I’m sorry—”

“That was our fault,” Newt says, shamefaced.

Graves struggles to sit up and Credence helps him, keeping an arm around his shoulders. “It had to be done,” Graves says shortly. He’s shaking, but doesn’t let on. “As long as they don’t know where we’ve been hiding. But we need to go.”

“Theseus, Newt, our things are upstairs,” Credence says, with a pointed look toward the door.

“Right,” Theseus says, heading for the exit. “Cheerio, boys, we’ll be back in a minute.” Newt has the courtesy to close the door behind them.

“Cheer-damnably-ho,” Graves mutters crossly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For Bridget Bishop’s sake…”

“Are you all right?” Credence asks.

Graves hesitates. His heart is pounding out of his chest, imagining Queenie’s face transforming into his, the whole idea making his stomach churn. “Not particularly.”

“I’d have passed out, too.”

There are footsteps in the hall. Theseus and Newt must not have delayed long. “We’ll talk later,” Credence murmurs. “Can you get up?”

An irritable sideways glance is all Credence gets. Graves gets to his feet, still feeling dizzy and grateful for Credence’s support. Neither Theseus nor Newt comment, for which Graves is grateful. “Let’s go,” he says brusquely.

“We can Apparate to the bakery in Diagon Alley,” Newt says off. “Percival, do you need—”

“I’ll go with Credence,” Graves says. “You two—we’ll meet you there.”

“The kitchen,” Theseus says. “That’s where everyone will be.”

And then he and Newt turn on the spot and disappear with a pair of sharp cracks.

Credence still has an arm around Graves’ back. “How about you Side-Along with me this time? I get the sense you’d Splinch yourself right now.”

Graves turns to rest his head on Credence’s shoulder. He feels himself shaking: that was a shock, indeed. To have his face taken…even for a good end…it doesn’t feel good. But there’s no time to think about it. Credence is already turning, Apparating them away from the safety of James’ house to the bakery in Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I laughed myself sick when I heard the phrase "cheer-damnably-ho." It's from Dorothy Sayers’ “The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club”, in public domain HTML format here: http://www.fadedpage.com/books/20140212/html.php


	21. Chapter 21

They land in a scene of quiet chaos. They appear together right in front of the oven and there’s a yell from half the kitchen. Graves has to take a moment to comprehend the sight: seven adults and a baby, packed into the room. The kitchen is large but not that large, and Credence and Graves barely fit.

Graves steps away from Credence the second they land. He still feels dizzy, but they have no time for him to perseverate. “We’re here,” he says curtly. “What’s happening?”

“Thank Merlin!” James says. He glances between Credence and Graves and a furrow appears in his brows, but he doesn’t comment. “Your names are clear, for one thing.”

“Professor Dumbledore is to thank for that,” Newt puts in.

The red-bearded wizard smiles benevolently. “Albus, please, Newt.”

“Too uncomfortable,” Newt mumbles.

Tina clears her throat. She’s holding a sleeping Young Theseus and looking fierce. “Explain to them what’s happening, Mr. Dumbledore.”

“Supreme Mugwump Neferiset and I have come to something of an understanding,” Dumbledore says. As he’s talking, Queenie slides between Jacob and the counter to settle herself firmly at Graves’ side, where she stays like a sentinel. “It is clear to all that you, Credence, are not responsible for the attack in Rome, because you were staying at Hogwarts at the time.”

“Right,” Credence says. He shifts slightly, putting himself between Graves and the rest of the room. “And _whose_ idea was that, again?”

Jacob looks Credence dead in the eye. “Mine,” he says. “We needed to move quick and there ain’t a better way to fool people into thinking you’re somewhere than by actually being there.”

Of course it would be Jacob to remember the usefulness of Polyjuice Potion and be able to put it to use in a crisis. Graves can’t blame him: in Jacob’s position he would have done the same thing. “Obviously it worked,” he says. “And where do we go from here?”

“Paris,” Theseus says. “The Confederation wants Credence to address the assembly as an…expert on Obscurials and what they can do. How they can be controlled. All that rot.”

Credence barks out a laugh. “An expert!”

“It’s not just an address,” Tina says. “It’s an implicit trial.”

“Of course it is,” Graves says. “They want a scapegoat.”

“They won’t get one,” Credence says flatly. He glances around at the other witches and wizards in the kitchen, visibly twitchy. “They can’t have me if—”

“Credence!” Queenie cuts him off reprovingly. Graves wonders what Credence was about to say, but decides not to ask.

Dumbledore’s eyes glitter behind his spectacles. “There are more people at stake than you.”

Credence looks at Dumbledore and Graves readies himself for a fight. The snarl Credence wears…is not a pretty sight. “Oh. Is this that…what do you call it…the Greater Good?”

The words hit the mark like bullets.

Dumbledore _flinches._

“Not now,” Graves says, voice tight.

“I won’t go anywhere until he talks,” Credence says.

“What’s going on?” Tina demands. “Talks about _what_?”

Credence shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. About how he and Grindelwald were _personal friends_ —I think the word was ‘Dioscuri’, whatever the hell that means? About how Ariana Dumbledore was a _God-damned Obscurial_? Talk about that, Dumbledore.”

The silence in the kitchen is devastating.

“Is it true?” James asks, turning to look at Dumbledore. He seems to be the only one capable of speech—maybe it’s that he’s the least attached to all this. When Dumbledore doesn’t answer immediately, James repeats, louder, “Is it true?”

“I presume that Grindelwald did contact you?” Dumbledore says to Credence.

“Unfortunately,” Credence says. “A letter. Long-winded. Annoying.”

“Revelatory,” Graves chimes in.

Dumbledore shakes his head. “I suppose it was inevitable. Yes, we were friends, for one summer in our youth. And Ariana was an Obscurial. The oldest living Obscurial—until you, of course. I am sure that he was truthful about these things. We were, in his words, ‘Castor and Pollux’, the Dioscuri. But we went our separate ways.”

Credence spits his words out. “And you’re still going to ask me to do the same thing he did. Take a bullet ‘for the greater good’.”

“Those are only words,” Dumbledore says. Even in the humble kitchen light, he looks refined and wise. The heavy formal robes of office, symbols of respect and well-earned power and position, don’t hurt the image. “Others have used them for far more benevolent purposes. Indeed, some men would have it that the greatest happiness of the greatest number as the measure of right and wrong is a fundamental axiom. Alas, there are many who twist this to their own ends, and such a one is Gellert Grindelwald.”

“Great,” Credence says. “And what part of ‘take a bullet’ did you miss?”

“I do not ask you to sacrifice yourself,” Dumbledore says. “Not unless you decide for yourself that it is worthwhile.”

Graves’ skin crawls a little bit. A fragment of the letter drifts through his mind: _Think upon this, Credence, and decide for yourself what sacrifices you will be willing to make in the days to come._

“We’re all ready to run, if you decide not to go to Paris,” Queenie says, pale but face set in determination. She’s already holding hands with Jacob and takes Graves’ hand as she speaks. “We did it once and we’ll do it again.”

“We aren’t asking—” Graves starts, but Tina overrides him.

“You aren’t asking, but we’re offering,” she says. “There are plenty of places no one would be able to find us, if that’s what we wanted.”

Newt nods. Arms folded, he stands beside Tina and tiny Theseus, immovable as a statue. “I know where we’d go, and I’d carry you there myself,” he says.

“And we aren’t staying behind,” Theseus says before Graves can speak. “James and I—”

“We talked,” James says quietly. “And we agree.”

Graves looks around helplessly at them all. Discounting Dumbledore and Young Theseus, too young to count, they’re six, now. Six people who’d drop their lives at his word and defend Credence to the death. And for all that Graves can’t let them get hurt. He can’t see that happen to them. Can’t see Jacob lose the business he’s worked so hard to build, can’t see Tina and Newt lose their family, can’t see James throw everything away over this.

But it isn’t his decision.

“Credence?” he asks.

“No,” Credence says. “I…we’ll go to Paris. I’ll address the ICW. We’ll be all right.”

The kitchen is quiet.

“We have two days,” Theseus says at last.

“Then let’s leave as soon as possible,” Graves says. He keeps his neutral mask on, stays cool as they need him to be now. “And…it hurts me to say this, but plan that we won’t be coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fundamental axiom” that Dumbledore paraphrases comes from Jeremy Bentham’s “A Fragment on Government," which sets out some of the principles of utilitarianism. The exact quote is: “it is the greatest happiness of the greatest number that is the measure of right and wrong”. 
> 
> It is, in context, a discussion on how people have missed what the consequences of this fundamental axiom actually ARE. There are other works of his which do a much more thorough job detailing it, but basically, for our purposes, utilitarianism is pretty much what it says on the tin. My critique is right here in the text, because apparently this is now a philosophical tract.
> 
> (You can read it 'cause it's in the public domain: http://www.efm.bris.ac.uk/het/bentham/government.htm)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. New movie's out, I haven't seen it yet. But man, I am SO EXCITED. Girlfriend says it's Engaging, so I'm Ready! 
> 
> And I'm pretty sure you can expect fic from me...

Paris is remarkably boring when they arrive. Of course, it’s night; Graves shouldn’t be terribly surprised. And they aren’t here to sightsee, anyway. They have two days before the ICW convenes, and one of those was already spent in London, everyone else packing frantically and locking up the bakery.

Newt had encouraged everyone—including James and Theseus—to let him carry the luggage in his suitcase. It gives Graves a sense of déjà vu, thinking about all their worldly goods packed in the suitcase once again.

James had sent a message on ahead this morning, to reserve rooms at a hotel, and they’d spent the entire day crossing the Channel and getting to Paris. Now they’re here, and the streets are dark and empty, though still warm from the sunny day. Their footsteps clatter on the pavement. People are out, in many places, but not as many as Graves had expected from this famous city of delights. Last time he’d been here, it had been a bustle, as fast as New York.

“They’re having hard time right now,” Jacob explains as an automobile rattles by. “Making lots of stuff that nobody else can buy, when the world’s poor. Everything went to hell in twenty-nine in America, it was already bad in England, and now the troubles have made it here.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Credence says. “I read the papers, but…”

Jacob shrugs. “Wizards don’t, generally,” he says. “You’ve all got your own money. It doesn’t do much around Muggles.”

“Lucky us,” Theseus says. “I’m glad that’s one trouble we don’t share.”

They’re walking down a wide boulevard, tree-lined on one side, and empty of any pedestrians. The windows on either side in every building are dark, and the night chill is setting in. The streetlights cast still shadows, light pooling beneath them, but reaching nowhere else. The night is clear and silent, and Graves’ nerves are stretched thin.

“We take a right just up here,” James says, gesturing at a gap between two buildings which must lead to an alley.

“Hurry,” Newt says, “I don’t like this…”

Graves takes about two more steps when every light in the street goes out. Every light, not just the streetlights, but the stars, too.

“Oh, damn,” Theseus hisses. “Lumos Maxima!” The light from his wand appears, but muted, dull, the sick color of a corpse instead of the light of a star.

“Lumos Maxima! Jacob, get behind me,” Graves snaps as his wand, too, illuminates.

“What’s happening?” Queenie asks. A bone-chilling, horribly unnatural cold is stealing across the street, cutting through Graves’ coat as if it isn’t there. He shudders, ice in his veins.

“Dementors,” James says.

Tina pushes Newt and Young Theseus behind her, drawing her wand. “Graves. What do you want us to do?” she asks tightly.

“Patronus Charms. It’s the only way,” Graves says. He can see the clouds of his breath. His body aches and there’s a sick sense of despair sinking through him. No matter how many times he’s faced these, they always steal up on him as terribly as they first did.

“I can’t—I can’t cast that,” Queenie whispers. “Can’t—can’t get a happy memory—” She folds her arms around herself, shivering.

“I can do one,” Newt says, calm and collected.

“No. Not yet. Keep Theseus warm and away from the Dementors,” Graves says. He turns to Credence as Tina, James, and Theseus close ranks around Jacob and Queenie and Newt. “You haven’t ever cast a Patronus Charm.”

Credence shakes his head. He clutches his wand tighter. “What is it?”

Graves meets his eyes. “Concentrate on your happiest memory,” he says, somehow managing to be calm even as strange rattling and moaning starts up all around them. “All your will. All of it. Wave your wand in a circle and say ‘Expecto Patronum’, that’s the incantation.”

“Expecto Patronum,” Credence murmurs. His face is gray and his hands are shaking.

“Yes,” Percival says. “You can do it, Credence.”

There are dark shapes approaching, darker shadows than the darkness around them. Huge wraiths, with skeletal hands covered in slimy scabby gray skin. It’s their breath that rattles and moans, as if they’re breathing in more than air. Their hoods are low over their faces but Graves can see the gaping dark hole of a mouth, gulping empty at the air.

“How many?” Theseus asks, voice hard and shaking.

“At least ten,” Tina says harshly. Graves glances at her. She’s wild-eyed and pale, wand hand trembling violently.

The Dementors are closing in. There might be more than ten, Graves can’t tell. He’s a little distracted by the way that Credence’s eyes have gone white, the way his body is fracturing at the edges.

“At least fifteen Dementors! Percy, we’re running out of time!” James warns.

Rattling howls are everywhere, reaching a horrifying crescendo, and Graves can’t worry about Credence now. “Patronus Charms. _Now_!”

Theseus, first off the mark, roars, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” A great silver light erupts from his wand. A huge mastiff, the size of a lion, rushes forth, barking silently and scattering Dementors as it goes.

“Expecto Patronum!” Tina shouts, voice strong again, and then there’s a tiny, brilliantly silver pigeon fluttering in circles about their heads. Despite its size, the Dementors shrink back, afraid of the touch of the little bird.

“Expecto Patronum,” James says, absolutely calm. A silent Great Horned Owl joins the pigeon, circling overhead and diving at the Dementors with its claws outstretched.

Graves gathers his strength. This has to be a Patronus unlike any other—it’s been a long time, but he has to do the impossible. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” he thunders, and a massive six-legged cat, a Wampus cat, bursts out, claws and teeth bared, savaging the Dementors.

But it’s not enough. They need another Patronus, another something to fight back against the darkness, and Credence hasn’t cast. Newt, behind Graves, is shouting, Jacob is white with terror, Queenie is clutching her head and keening loudly at the Dementors’ horrible thoughts, Young Theseus is screaming at the top of his small lungs and the Dementors will go right for him first—

“Expecto Patronum,” Graves hears Credence gasp. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

Nothing happens. Nothing, not even a small silver light.

A Dementor is drifting toward Credence, hands outstretched and mouth opened wide. Graves can only watch as the smoke of the emerging Obscurus drifts slowly toward the Dementor, pulled toward that rattling maw as if the Dementor would consume the Obscurus.

And then Credence explodes.  

Everyone is screaming as the street erupts, cobblestones flying. Graves takes a hit to the shoulder but all he can do is shout Credence’s name into the maelstrom. But Credence can’t hear.

The Obscurus launches itself across the street and Graves sees it trying to re-form into Credence, but the Dementors—

They’re attacking him.

No—Graves can see the way that they approach, the way they swirl, and he sees them sucking bits of Credence in, rattling and moaning. They’re devouring him. Graves runs—shouts Credence’s name—but the Dementors have not forgotten him and one looms up—

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_ Newt shouts at the top of his lungs.

A huge silver Hippogriff thunders silently through the crowd, scattering the Dementors. Graves redirects his Patronus, bringing it around to Credence, and the other three do the same. The Dementors scatter and flee, leaving the street freezing but the lights slowly coming back.

“Find him!” Graves shouts, plunging into the Obscurus, looking for Credence. He doesn’t wait for anyone and is shocked when he sees James dive into the mass of swirling magic, too. “ _Credence_!”

“Here!” James shouts. “Percy! I found him! He’s over here!”

Graves rushes to James’ side. Credence is folded in James’ arms, shaking, and James is holding him tight. Graves holds Credence too—his clothes are shredded and there are _holes_ punched in his arms, raw scarred skin that look like he’s been frostbitten.

Theseus, in the background, is conferring with Tina, gathering up the shaken group; when Graves glances up, Newt is shepherding a stricken Jacob while Tina carries Young Theseus. Theseus himself has picked Queenie up, carrying her like she weighs as much as a feather, and they come to join Graves, James, and Credence on the sidewalk.

“We need to get off the street,” Tina says tightly.

“Those weren’t wild Dementors,” Newt spits out. His Hippogriff Patronus circles the group, wings beating slowly as it keeps back the darkness. “There’s no pack native to Paris. Someone brought those here, someone meant us to be attacked.”

“We can worry about that later,” Graves says. “James—get Credence up. Tina’s right, we have to move fast before they come back.”

James helps Credence to his feet. Credence leans on the man, eyes still wavering white and body shaking. Graves squeezes his shoulder once and then takes the lead, calling up his Patronus again. The Wampus cat leads them on down the alley, toward whatever dubious safety they can find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Déjà vu” is from 1903. The term is only 30 years old as of Credence using it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.

The hotel is a No-Maj one, the better to blend in with the crowd and avoid hostile wizards and the press. On arrival they go to their separate rooms, and the night is restless. But they have no time to recover from the Dementors: they’re expected before the Assembly on this very day.

Pale, smartly dressed in his good robes, and in one solid piece, Credence is in the hotel lobby the next morning at seven o’clock sharp. Graves—equally well-dressed in a stark black No-Maj suit—is by his side. Graves is proud of Credence just for getting up this morning. This is exceeding all expectations.

“Last night was a complete disaster,” Graves says, watching the people passing. “Will you be able to address the assembly?”

“I have to,” Credence says. He steps sideways a bit, so that he and Graves are firmly shoulder to shoulder. “Do you think Dumbledore’s idea will work out?”

Graves sighs. Most of the “idea” was Dumbledore twinkling his eyes at them and leaving. “I have no idea. Just…be smart about it. They’ll use it to hurt you.”

Credence shoves his hands into his coat pocket. “Everything is used to hurt me. And I have nothing to hide.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to tell them everything,” Graves says.

James and Theseus come striding across the lobby together, deep in conversation; they stop by Graves and Credence. “I have information,” Theseus says. He’s all business, wearing robes in the British style, thoroughly ignoring any stares. “Sebastian Longbottom sent an owl last night, after I wrote him. He knows I’m with you, asked me to pass on that the Ministry didn’t send the Dementors after us. You trust him?”

“He has integrity,” Graves says. “If he says they didn’t…they might be wild after all?”

“Not a chance,” James says. He holds up a newspaper. “Page six of Le Parisien Magique. A half a column about an incident at Azkaban yesterday. Nothing important, but the coincidence…”

“I won’t ignore your instincts.” Graves glances at James, shakes his head, and offers in the name of levity: “Of course you’re fluent in French and decided to read the _newspaper_ this morning when we’re on our way to an informal trial.”

James smiles cheerfully. “Well, some things never change. And someone has to be calm, cool, and collected while the world burns.”

“If you weren’t so damn handsome, I’d be annoyed with you,” Theseus grumbles.

For the first time that morning, Credence musters up a smile. “It’s impossible to be annoyed with handsome men in general,” he says, clapping Theseus on the shoulder. “Which is why you and I have never had a problem before.”

Graves rolls his eyes. “Save me,” he says to James. “He’s going to leave me for Theseus. My pride will never recover.”

“Pardon me, Graves, but I have a sense of self-preservation,” Theseus says. “I wouldn’t touch Credence if you paid me.”

“I’m injured,” Credence says dryly. “I’m worth at least a Galleon or two, surely.”

“You’re worth all the money in Gringotts, if you ask Percy,” James says with a laugh.

With a shake of his head, Graves smiles. “He’s not wrong.”

The conversation stalls as the other five hurry up. “Sorry about that,” Tina says, “we were getting our things together.”

Young Theseus, toddling along in his Mum’s footsteps, seizes hold of Credence’s leg. “Cre?” he asks, looking up pleadingly.

Credence scoops the boy up, settling him on one hip. “Good morning, Theseus,” he says. “How are you today?”

“Good,” Young Theseus says decisively. He presses an Occamy feather into Credence’s hand, pushing it away when Credence tries to give it back. And then, clearly embarrassed, he hides his face in Credence’s shoulder.

“He wouldn’t put it down. Kept insisting on sharing it with ‘Cre’,” Newt says with a small smile. “I think he wants you to have it.”

“Well—thanks, Theseus,” Credence says, obviously a little flustered. With his free hand, he tucks the feather into his pocket. “Should we go?”

The ICW assembly convenes at secret salons inside the palace of Versailles. Upon their arrival, the group of eight—nine, if Young Theseus is counted—is escorted by French Aurors in austere dress to waiting chambers. Versailles is elaborate and golden, with mirrors and halls and statuary that makes Graves’ head spin.

The halls are a maze and Graves distantly considers the disaster of what will happen if they get into trouble and can’t get out. “Witnesses and presenters this way,” one of the Aurors says at a juncture of the hall, “the others to the viewing galleries that way—”

“Wait, wait,” Jacob says, as the group begins to separate out. “Give us—just give us a moment, would you?” The Aurors, considerately, take a few steps back.

Tina takes Young Theseus from Credence and gives Credence a short, tight hug. “You give them hell out there,” she says, blinking back tears. And then she turns to Newt, who’ll also be taking the stand as the world’s leading expert on Obscurials, to have a brief romantic moment with him.

“If you need us, we’ll be right up in the viewing gallery,” Jacob says firmly, giving Credence a hug as well, “and it wouldn’t be the first time I got up in front of the ICW. Even though the first time was an accident.”

Queenie kisses Credence on the cheek. “You’ll be amazing, love,” she murmurs. “Don’t be scared of them. I can hear a lot of ’em already. People are scared of _you_.”

Theseus surprises everyone by hugging Credence, too: “I expect to see something bloody phenomenal, with how you write.”

James grips Credence’s shoulder tightly. “I’ll make sure everyone’s all right,” he promises. “If anything does happen, I’ll keep them safe.”

And then it’s Graves’ turn. Considerately, the others all take a few steps away, not all the way out of earshot, but giving the illusion of privacy. “You have this in hand, easily,” Graves says, straightening Credence’s collar.

“I know,” Credence says. He swallows hard. “I wish you were out there with me.”

“I’ll be in the gallery,” Graves says softly. “And if anything happens, I’ll get down there with you as fast as I can.”

Credence takes Graves’ hands. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” Graves replies. He kisses Credence right then. And it feels uncomfortably final.

The Aurors escort the whole group up to the viewing galleries. The salon is gold and bright, mirrors and crystals and marble and gilt, absolutely stunning. Graves is fairly impressed: he’d actually never had the opportunity to visit Paris during his tenure as Director in MACUSA.

There are wizards and witches ranged on risers around the floor below, leaders, Ministers and Presidents and more, the greatest powers of the wizarding world. Graves recognizes many faces, though not so many as he would have six years ago, since there have been plenty of reelections. He does recognize the French Minister of Magic Adrienne Le Pelletier, presiding from the dais at the front of the room, where once the French king might have sat. She is acting Secretary-General of the Confederation as long as it convenes in her country. When it convenes in America, President Grimsditch will fill the role; when it convenes in China, Chairwoman Ya Zhou will fill it; and so on.

Many leaders have their advisers present as well. Dumbledore stands by British Minister for Magic Hector Fawley; Graves smiles to see Seraphina Picquery standing watchful behind Chairwoman Ya Zhou. And, of course, it gives Graves pause to see Supreme Mugwump Neferiset among the Egyptian delegation, the most powerful member of the Assembly, who is known to exercise her power only in great crisis. Graves wonders if she’ll exercise it today.

There are plenty of people up here in the viewing galleries, too, but seats have been reserved for those accompanying Newt and Credence. They’ve arrived in the middle of what Theseus mutters must be the speeches of the Sudanese delegation. Graves is interested. They spend quite a bit of time going off about the impossibility of Obscurials in the modern age, denying everything that everyone in the viewing gallery knows to be a fact.

At last Newt enters. He’s not remotely nervous, delivering his presentation with the enthusiasm of an expert lecturer. It’s purely scientific: an explanation of what creates the Obscurus, an explanation of its behavior, classifications, case studies, and so on and so forth. All designed in the last two days to give Credence as much leeway as possible, all designed to make sure that Credence can’t be construed as a Grindelwald supporter.

And finally, it’s Credence’s turn.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO, KIDS, MY FAVORITE THING ON EARTH:
> 
> _**POLITICS. ******_

With his head held high, Credence paces to the center of the room. He seems so small, down there, but the whole atmosphere of the room changes. Everyone knows who—what—they’re looking at, and many of them are terrified. Graves himself is nearly breathless. He wishes he were down there on the floor beside Credence, but that’s impossible.

“Please state your name for the record,” a secretary, at the Minister’s side, says.

“Credence.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Surname?” the secretary prompts.

The question is almost laughable. Graves knows full well what the answer won’t be. Still, he wonders what, exactly, Credence is going to say.

“Graves,” he says, voice ringing out to fill the room. “My name is Credence Graves.”

The room quietly implodes.

Graves also quietly implodes.

He sees his friends looking at him out of the corners of his eyes, but ignores them. He ignores the murmuring that spreads out around the room, whispers susurrating as people discuss the implications of what just happened. Graves is much more worried about the man at the center of it all.

Down below, Credence looks up into the viewing gallery, meeting Graves’ eyes. Graves stares back. Credence raises his eyebrows. Graves breaks into a smile, and he nods. He is beyond happy. Credence smiles back, and then he turns back to the Assembly.

“Mr. Graves, the Confederation calls upon you to discuss the nature of Obscurials,” Minister Le Pelletier says in a sweet voice, accented only lightly with French. She eloquently ignores the whispering around the rest of the assembly, the quiet explosion in the viewing gallery. “Please, make your presentation.”

Credence looks only at her. “Your Excellency, before we begin discussion of Grindelwald’s victims—” And _that_ puts the cat among the owls, doesn’t it? Graves can hear the whispering starting up again as Credence doesn’t refer to Obscurials by name. “—I would like to present, for the record’s sake alone, the details of an attack endured by myself and my family last night upon our arrival in Paris.”

“Irrelevant,” a man—German Chancellor Johann Reuchlin, Graves thinks, from quite an old wizarding family—scoffs. “Pelletier, we did not call him here to discuss mundane matters.”

“I doubt very seriously that Mr. Graves would bring something irrelevant before us in such a time of crisis,” Ya Zhou says, looking across the room at the Germans. Graves allows himself a smirk. He’s not entirely sure what she’s planning, but if Seraphina Picquery is with her, it’s nothing good for those who’d rather appease Grindelwald than fight him.

“Chairwoman Zhou is correct in her assessment,” Le Pelletier says. She waves a hand. “Please, Mr. Graves. Continue.”

It’s absolutely bizarre to hear Credence referred to as ‘Mr. Graves,’ but Graves already loves the sound of it. Credence doesn’t bat an eye. “We arrived in Paris at ten o’clock last night and intended to go straight to our hotel and prepare for today,” he says. “However, we were barely halfway to our destination before we were attacked by a pack of Dementors, anywhere between fifteen to twenty, if you—as I do—trust the assessment of the four trained Aurors in our party.”

“Half of whom got thrown out of America as traitors,” President Grimsditch cuts in. “The Confederation should ignore their testimony on any subject.”

At that, Credence looks at him. “Theseus Scamander and James McGuinness are men of exemplary record,” he says, and casts a brief glance at Minister Fawley and the others of the English delegation. “I think that the English should have the final say there. But please, President Grimsditch, cast aspersions on the competence of your own government in selecting its Aurors. We’ll wait.”

Someone snickers. Graves is hard-pressed not to laugh aloud and Tina doesn’t try to hide her snort of amusement. Minister Fawley barely contains his smirk, and Seraphina Picquery isn’t even bothering to try to hide her grin. Grimsditch is even redder in the face than before, but this time not from annoyance. Le Pelletier clears her throat. “Mr. Graves, kindly leave the discipline of members of the assembly to the rest of the body,” she says.

“My apologies,” Credence says, giving her a slight bow. Graves shakes his head. When exactly did Credence learn to orate like this? Listening to him, Graves can almost believe the stories of divine inspiration told in Credence’s Bible. “The attack was fended off by the Aurors, but I unfortunately was targeted. Apparently, the nature of the Obscurus is such that I am particularly vulnerable to the soul-devouring properties of a Dementor. I was forced unwillingly into a change, which formerly would have left half of Paris in ruins. This time, I was able to control myself, and we are here today.”

“Ridiculous,” Minister Nenkov of Bulgaria says. “The Obscurus is uncontrollable.” There’s a murmur of assent around the chamber. Of course people listen: the man has been reelected five times now because of his competence in office.

“I’m afraid that there is little evidence for your claim, Mr. Graves,” Le Pelletier says.

“Is an absolute truth enough?” Credence asks, still alarmingly calm. Graves reminds himself to trust the rules of the ICW, to trust Dumbledore, to above all trust Credence. “If I can provide incontrovertible evidence that I am not lying?”

Le Pelletier’s eyes narrow. “What are you suggesting?”

“Dose me with Veritaserum.”

The room implodes much more loudly this time. Credence doesn’t move a single muscle as loud objections and comments arise on every side. Graves tenses: they’re not going to let him do it. The African delegates move into a private conference, arguing fiercely among themselves. Brazilian Minister Joao Ferreira is in deep conversation with leaders who, by their dress, Graves guesses to be the leaders of the small traditional communities protected by the Brazilian government. The Europeans, generally, appear to be having a collective conniption fit. Grimsditch is talking loudly to anyone who will listen.

The Chairwoman isn’t saying a word to anyone, nor are any of the other Asian leaders. Have they formed a coalition? Well—Japanese Minister Yasunori is standing rather far away from Ya Zhou; they’ve had bad relations lately because the Muggle governments are coming to blows and the Japanese haven’t done much to step in. Maybe not a coalition. But certainly an agreement.

Le Pelletier looks past Credence toward the Egyptians. Graves follows her gaze as the Supreme Mugwump steps forward from the delegation. She carries herself deliberately, in traditional robes that evoke thousands of years of history and tradition; her crown, with its serpent and strange knot, symbolizes her position as leader and most politically powerful mage in the world.

“Mr. Graves,” she says to Credence. She’s not young by any means, brown skin finely lined from years of study and work and care, hair iron-gray. Her voice rings with authority and confidence brought by wisdom and experience. “It’s rare for this conclave to see someone so desperate for the truth that they would willingly take a truth serum.”

“The truth is important, Your Excellency,” Credence says. She’s small, much shorter than he is; Graves gets the distinct impression that Credence is still looking up at her. “I was called here to give testimony on the nature of Obscurials. But opposition to that testimony in this room is very strong.”

Neferiset is impassive. “With good reason. We were all there in New York, or at least bore witness to the aftermath. What will your truth reveal that we do not already know, Mr. Graves?”

“Only that we can learn control,” Credence says. “That we can cease to be at threat to anyone, witch, wizard, or Muggle. That we can be saved, Your Excellency.”

“Ridiculous!” Chancellor Reuchlin says, to a surge of agreement.

“Enough,” Neferiset says, and the Assembly goes absolutely silent. “In the last hour, we have allowed the Sudanese delegation to present their evidence that the formation of Obscurials is unrelated to the Statute of Secrecy, and Mr. Scamander’s contradictory testimony that the same event happens because of that same Statute, and more. Nothing we have heard is particularly convincing. It is time, I think, to hear from our oldest living Obscurial. I will grant Veritaserum in this trial.”

Graves pauses as the full impact of what Neferiset said hits him. Trial. This _is_ a trial. And it’s not Credence who’s in the dock. This is a trial for the _Statute of Secrecy itself_.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of last night, the entire story - all of it - has been beta-read and edited. The Accidental Epic...has an end, somewhere far down the line.
> 
> Yes, I cried myself silly. 
> 
> Be that as it may: in this chapter Credence experiences what TV Tropes might call "Die or Fly," "11th-Hour Superpower," or "Crisis Makes Perfect." You know, that thing where a protagonist suddenly gains extraordinary competence in something that they've never actually done before or practiced. 
> 
> Nobody should be _this goddamn good_ at public speaking on their first try, yet here we are.
> 
> Then again, I needed him to be able to do this so Credence can orate what TV Tropes would probably call an "Author Filibuster."

A commotion ensues while Veritaserum is located. Conveniently, Dumbledore has a vial in his personal effects — “A good wizard never travels without a complete potion kit, Your Excellency,” he tells Neferiset, with a twinkle in his eye. So _that_ was his idea…Graves wants to hex the man. But he holds it together, because there are other things to worry about now. Credence waits stock-still in the middle of the floor, and Graves just wants to be on the floor at his side.

Dumbledore comes out and offers the Veritaserum himself. He tips three careful drops of potion into a goblet of clear water. Inaudible words are exchanged between them, and then Credence takes the goblet. In three drafts, he’s finished the drink. He hands the goblet back to Dumbledore, backs off the floor.

“Ask me,” Credence says, looking to the Supreme Mugwump.

“I leave that to the assembly,” she says. She gestures widely to the delegates.

“Can an Obscurus be controlled?” the Canadian governor-general asks, his voice booming.

“Yes,” Credence says simply.

“Then what about New York?” an African man in the second row asks. Agonglo, President of Dahomey, Graves thinks, if he’s remembering correctly. He speaks as if he’s speaking for the entire continent of Africa.

“I was acting on instinct at the time,” Credence says slowly. “But—I was aware of my surroundings. In agony, frightened, and angry, but I could perceive my surroundings.”

Agonglo presses the question. “Did you intend to destroy New York?”

Credence hesitates. “I _intended_ to destroy Grindelwald.”

“But you lost control and destroyed the city.”

Graves grips the railing in front of him so tightly it feels like it’s going to crack under his hands. “I did,” Credence says. “I was under attack and afraid for my life. Why would anyone stop fighting, under such circumstances?”

“No one would,” the man says, looking obliquely at the British delegation. Pointed; very nice bit of byplay, a fair reminder of why recruitment of African wizards to Grindelwald’s cause has surged. The memory of people who’ve experienced violence is a long one. “If that’s true, why did you stop last night, when you were attacked?”

“Because I was safe once the Dementors were driven away. My husband and James McGuinness worked together to rein me in.” He hesitates, pauses for a too-long moment. Graves wills Credence to keep talking, keep doing what they planned, keep things moving in the right direction.  “That’s the key to any Obscurial. Safety.”

“What does safety mean?” Grimsditch demands.

“To me? It means family,” Credence says. He looks up at the people in the viewing gallery. “Any of them could convince me that I was safe.”

A sharp-faced woman, tall and blonde and probably Swedish, raises her brows. “Do you propose that subduing the monster in Rome is as easy as giving it a hug?”

There’s a ripple of laughter. Credence’s voice is tense, slashing through the sound. “Yes. It was that easy for me.”

Chancellor Reuchlin scoffs. “Preposterous!”

“Three people reached out to me and did me an uncomplicated kindness,” Credence says. “Tina Goldstein. Newt Scamander. Percival Graves. All three looked at a monster and held out a hand in friendship instead of killing the beast.”

There’s a lot of noise in the assembly, but Credence doesn’t stop talking. It’s as if he physically can’t stop—the Veritaserum is in full effect. “You want this to be a simple matter of men and monsters, of shutting your eyes and preserving the status quo at all costs. It’s easiest for you to blast the monster to pieces than to look at the frightened _child_ Grindelwald is using as a weapon. Because if you look at that child, you have to see the face of your failure. You have to see the consequences of willful blindness and the dangers of orthodoxy. You might have to see that you might be _wrong_.”

Credence stops, and there’s silence left in his wake.

Graves is rather impressed.

“Mr. Graves. That is all very well, but what action do you expect the Confederation to take?” Le Pelletier asks coldly.

This is the critical moment, isn’t it? “I ask that I be given official sanction to seek out and find Grindelwald’s Obscurial,” Credence says.

“That can’t be allowed!” the Russian Premier thunders. He glares. “We still don’t know a thing about Graves’ connection to Grindelwald!”

Credence looks utterly furious. “I am not, and never would be, one of Grindelwald’s fanatics.”

“What will you do if we should sanction your quest?” Neferiset asks.

“Find the child and help them to recover,” Credence says. “Help them escape Grindelwald’s influence. Prevent the deaths of more innocents.”

“You can’t guarantee anything!” Minister Fawley interjects.

“He can’t make a guarantee, but it’s still a better plan than yours,” Ferreira says smoothly. His gaze cuts past Credence without stopping, gaze sweeping the assembly. “We could listen to your plan and do nothing while Grindelwald grows in might, or let him chase the Obscurial and take a weapon from Grindelwald. I know which I’ll take.”

One of the other South American leaders bristles. “It still doesn’t resolve the issue that the policies of the Confederation are _half_ the worth of the promises Grindelwald makes!”

A murmur of assent ripples through a significant portion of the chamber. So that’s the third side, then. First the faction that wants the status quo. The second faction that would take to open war. And the third faction that wants an alliance. Credence has fallen headfirst into a political abyss, and he’s _everybody’s_ pawn. Graves has no idea what to do now.

“That is not the matter at hand,” Ya Zhou says clearly.

All eyes in the room turn to her. Besides Neferiset, Le Pelletier, and Grimsditch, Ya Zhou has the most political power in the room. Many countries turn to China for leadership, which means that China’s decisions will sway them, and bind many otherwise-dissenting countries into the deals being made now.

She continues. “The issue of an alliance is moot. That man and his followers have followed through on none of their other promises, and I myself would not trust him to merely consume Muggle society and place himself above us all.”

There’s apparently grudging agreement to her statement. No one seems to want to object openly. Not the best outcome, but better than Graves expected, given the complete chaos on display.

“Now that our witnesses have given testimony, I am minded to move this issue to a closeted debate,” Neferiset says. Damn. “Mr. Graves, do you have any final remarks?”

Credence nods slowly. “Only this,” he says. “I can guarantee nothing. But neither could my husband when he held out his hand to me. I could have killed him and destroyed New York. Regardless, he chose to take a chance on me. For the sake of whatever tortured child Grindelwald is using as his weapon, and for their sake _alone_ , I hope that you make the same choice.”

 

***

 

Everyone who isn’t a member of the assembly is summarily removed from the chamber. It’s a roar of noise as they exit the viewing galleries to the main hall, where all the spectators congregate. Graves is mildly stunned, but has the presence of mind to guide everyone to a niche beside a window. People try to stop them, to talk; Graves roundly ignores them all.

“Where did he learn to speak like that?” Jacob asks.

“I thought Credence was shy!” Tina bursts out.

“He told me it was too much time around revival preachers as a child,” Graves says. “And apparently, his...mother…was an astounding public speaker.”

Tina purses her lips. “She was that,” she says grudgingly. “I saw her more than once. Guess Credence got something good from her after all.”

“That,” Graves says, “and he practices. Often. On me.”

Graves is distracted from further conversation by looking for Newt and Credence. He scans the crowd impatiently. They’ll stick out, if only because of Newt’s blue coat. And yes: there he is, there they are, emerging out of the mass.

Newt halloos them, and everyone turns, but Graves has eyes only for Credence.

They don’t run to each other. That would be silly. But the moment Credence is within arm’s reach, Graves pulls him into a fierce embrace. “Credence Graves?” he asks.

“I can’t think of a better name,” Credence whispers.

“Everything I have is yours.”

Credence turns his head just a little. “I’m yours,” he says, so the room can’t hear him. “Yours. Happy to be yours.”

Graves lets go. In a split second he’s kissing Credence hard, right there in the middle of everyone. It’s like their first kiss all over again, badly angled and a little scared and so, so wonderful. When they break apart, Graves just stares into Credence’s eyes for a moment. He’s not sure that, even now as the world falls apart, that he could be happier.

“So I didn’t get an invitation, but am I right in assuming that Credence’s testimony in front of the Assembly counts as your wedding?” Theseus asks.

“Of course neither of you could just get married like the rest of us,” Tina says, rolling her eyes with a grin. She throws her arms around Graves in a hug and he squeezes her tightly.

“Of course not,” Credence agrees, receiving a back-thumping hug from Jacob.  

Queenie pitches her arms around Graves and he finds himself smiling so hard it hurts. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers in his ear.

Newt actually hugs Graves too; James shakes Credence’s hand with a brilliant, sincere smile. It couldn’t be a more perfect moment. For a moment, Graves can forget it all, forget where they are, what they’re doing—everything. It’s just good.

“Does this mean that you two finally get to have a proper honeymoon?” Newt inquires.

“I don’t think we quite have time for that,” Graves says. He sighs. The perfect moment is over, then, and it’s back to business. Oh well. “When the assembly announces its decision, we’ll either get our way and be hunting Grindelwald, or doing something…else.” Like running away from the entire world in a suitcase. Again.

Credence shrugs. “Anyway, we’ve really been living a honeymoon for the last five years.”

“Still,” Theseus says, “we can’t let this go without some sort of celebration.”

James casts a glance at Theseus. “How about that infamous nightclub?”

Theseus squints at James for a moment, visibly confused, and then breaks into a brilliant grin. “Can you get us in the door?”

“I slept with the owner,” James says smugly. “If I can’t get us in, you have my full permission to keelhaul me back across the Channel.”

“Where are we going?” Tina asks.

At the same moment that Queenie bursts into breathless laughter. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, we’re serious,” Theseus says.

Graves looks between them all. “…and where are we going?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter. I'm literally walking out the door to drive back to school in five minutes and the next chapter requires some last-minute rewrites that I don't have time to tackle now. I hope this is okay. :c

“I cannot believe you slept with the owner of L'étoile d'Eiffel,” Graves says, rolling his eyes as they return to the hotel. He’d never been, but the wizards-only nightclub atop the Eiffel Tower has quite the reputation as the genuine article.

James, lackadaisical, replies, “Believe it or not—I already sent the message saying we were coming and to have a table reserved for the lot of us.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised there’s a nightclub up there,” Jacob says. He puts his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “Is there anywhere wizards haven’t gone plumb crazy?”

“I doubt it,” Theseus says cheerfully. “Now—I hope everyone brought nice clothes or can Transfigure themselves something good!”

Newt, carrying a sleepy Young Theseus, shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll go, sorry,” he says. “I’m not one for loud evenings like this.”

“Nor am I,” Tina says. She squeezes Credence’s hand. “Think we’ll give you our congratulations and see you off, if that’s all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” Graves says. “Credence, do you want help with your suit?”

James catches Graves by the elbow. “Oh, no, you don’t!”  

Graves turns a flummoxed look on the other man. “What do you mean, no? He’s worse at Transfiguration than I am, someone has to help him out.”

“It’s tradition that you two don’t see each other until the ceremony, and even if it’s all upside down and backwards we can _try_ to retain tradition. So you’re going to let Theseus and I take care of you,” James says, exchanging a glance with a highly entertained Theseus, “and let Queenie handle Credence.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Credence says, ostentatiously rolling his eyes. He offers an arm to Queenie. “I trust you won’t make me look too much like a dandy.”

“Of course not, honey,” Queenie says. She throws a wink at James and Theseus. “But these two might do that to Graves!”

Graves shares a knowing look with Tina. “I,” he says, “would be fine with that.”

“New York’s best male fashion plate,” Tina says, gesturing flamboyantly at Graves. She grins at James and Theseus. “Do your worst, he’ll enjoy it!”

Graves is actually quite happy to let James and Theseus tackle his clothes, once they’re alone in the room that the two other men are sharing. Graves really hasn’t worn anything sharp or stylish in a long time. It is true that, in his days as Director of Magical Security, he’d taken perhaps excessive pride in his dress habits. “I _was_ a bit of a fashion plate,” he says, when Theseus asks about what Tina said.

“Not a real one, I hope?”

“I doubt it. But I was certainly the best-dressed wizard in New York.”

James sighs as, with deft and practiced charms, he tailors Graves’ black suit coat into a proper tailcoat. Broad-shouldered and well-draped, it looks much finer than it began. “Good to know some things never change.”

“Clothes are my only vice,” Graves says with dignity, shining his shoes with a flick of his wand.

Theseus, transfiguring Graves’ ordinary vest into one that’s white with black buttons, grins. “I think there are worse vices,” he says. “I certainly share that one!”

Graves does up the white waistcoat. “This is good,” he compliments Theseus.

“I have to do a lot myself,” Theseus admits. “I don’t like the time Muggle tailors take. And I don’t trust wizarding tailors to get the proportions right, they only ever have robe patterns.”

James looks Theseus up and down as he passes the tailcoat to Graves. “Are you modeling off the Prince of Wales or something?”

“Of course I am,” Theseus says. He looks Graves up and down. “A little too dour.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Graves asks.

“Color.” Theseus lifts his wand high and flecks of blue glitter float down, settling over Graves’ clothes. The suit coat melts into a deep, deep blue—midnight blue. Very suitable, matching Graves’ winter scarf—a far lighter blue—almost perfectly.  

James claps. “Very nice!”

Graves looks himself over in the mirror. It really does look good. Critically, he studies his hair, and with running commentary from Theseus and James, makes sure that he looks good. He’s been fully gray for a while, but he notices more than a few truly silver strands in his hair now. It’s unsettling.

“I don’t feel old,” he complains to James. “You’re older than I am and don’t look fifty.”

“Well, I feel fifty,” James says. He stands by Graves, shoulder to shoulder. He really does look younger than Graves. More smile lines than when he and Graves met all those years ago, of course, and crow’s-feet around his eyes. But his hair is still thick and blond, and his eyes are bright and still cheerful despite the weight of years.

Maybe, Graves thinks, it’s not weight for James.

“Life’s been good to you,” he says, watching James in the mirror.

James drapes his arm over Graves’ shoulders. “I’m sorry it hasn’t been so good to you,” he says, a little quieter. “I always did think you deserved better than the hand you got dealt.”

Theseus, Graves notices suddenly, has made himself scarce. He smiles faintly. “It’s been all right,” he says. “Some bad, but…I ended up with a few good years with you, and then Credence.”

“That is something,” James says. He steps back and looks Graves up and down. “You look fine.”

“Thanks to you,” Graves says, straightening his coat. “Let’s go join the throng.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prince of Wales was a male style icon in the early 1930s. See here: http://www.blacktieguide.com/History/08-Depression_Era.htm


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest. Chapter. EVER.
> 
> Literally. It's 3,500+ words. 
> 
> Enjoy. :D

They loiter to the side of the lobby, chatting idly as they wait on the others. All of a sudden Queenie calls to them: “Hello, boys!”

Graves turns to see her swanning across the lobby, hanging on Jacob’s arm in a gorgeous green evening gown. The back was a halter, baring her shoulders, gleaming with beaded embroidery, and it had a short train flowing behind her—a bit Grecian in style. Jacob looks thoroughly dapper in a black coat and tails, perfectly tailored for him. And Credence…well, Credence is just stunning. He wears a suit of ruby red, with a black waistcoat. His hair is sleek and curls shining, and it looks as if Queenie may have had a hand in mildly powdering his face. 

Credence is staring, and Graves stares right back. They stand close together, Credence stopping at Graves’ side. No words are exchanged. They don’t really need them.

“Well, we’re all here! Shall we go?” James asks.

Theseus glances up the stairs. “My little brother really not coming?” He sounds disappointed.

“He and Tina are having a…what did they call it? Quiet night in,” Jacob says with a wink.

Credence smiles. “We’d better remember to knock on the suitcase tomorrow morning.”

James laughs. “Come on,” he says, “I already called for a taxi.”

The taxi is a magical conveyance, a spacious and well-appointed car that’s hidden from Muggle eyes. All six of them are crowded together, everyone but Graves and Credence chattering and laughing. It’s kind of the others not to comment on their silence. The night feels a little surreal, a little as if Graves is spinning. Strange, too dreamlike to be true.

At last they turn and begin the drive up along the Champ de Mars toward the tower. Of course they all stop to stare, and Graves is no exception. There before them is the Eiffel Tower. It rises nearly a thousand feet into the air, nothing but its iron-lace silhouette visible in the darkness of the evening; huge lit letters marching down its side: CITROEN.

“Muggles will never cease to amaze,” Theseus pronounces. “I don’t know how they do it without magic, really I don’t!”

“Hard work and plenty of smarts,” Jacob says with a big smile. “Totally foreign to you, eh, Scamander?”

Theseus makes a face. He sounds like a child. “Magic can be hard work.”

Jacob scoffs and Credence laughs. Graves leans forward slightly, reaching past James to pat Theseus sympathetically on the knee. “I know the feeling. Credence insists that house-cleaning be done by hand…”

“It’s good for you!” Credence says, lightly smacking Graves on the shoulder.

“Save us from these Muggle know-it-alls,” Theseus says plaintively to Queenie.

She laughs. “Honey, I make breakfast without magic every day. I see their point!”

Theseus makes a playfully irritated noise, but the taxi is pulling to a stop beside the tower. Graves, first out, helps Queenie out of the car so she doesn’t trip over her dress, and she takes Jacob’s arm as they hurry into a lift staffed by a well-dressed house-elf. James chats with him in French as they rise, up past the two Muggle restaurants, all the way to the top of the tower.

At the platform they step out of the elevator to see a door to nothing opening just across. But there’s also the railing, the open balcony that looks out over Paris, and Credence ignores everything in favor of going to the rail and looking out.

Graves follows. The lights of Paris spread out below them, winking and blinking like a million shining eyes. The breeze, cold at this altitude, hisses through the iron latticework and ruffles his hair lightly. He shivers. “Incredible view,” he says.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Credence admits.

“Neither can I,” Graves says, “and yet.”

“No, I mean…” Credence pauses. He rests his elbows on the rail, staring off into the darkness. “I never imagined all this. That we’d come to England and be caught up in things that are so…big. I thought our story was over.” Credence takes Graves’ hand in silence and they stare out over Paris.

“Are you two coming?” Queenie asks from behind them.

“Of course,” Graves says, turning to her. He doesn’t let go of Credence’s hand, and Credence follows Graves happily into the nightclub.

Not once in his whole career did Graves ever visit this infamous spot. He’s not ashamed of gaping a little bit: even by wizarding standards, this place is a marvel. And if Graves is impressed, then Credence is fully astonished.

The room is huge. That door they came from opened out into open air, but this room is vast and beautiful, glittering gold with mirrors on every surface. Crystals, three-dimensional starbursts, drift in constellations overhead, reflecting in the polished floor. Tables are scattered around the edges of the room, leaving a great open space on the floor where couples whirl in a glorious riot of color and laughter and talk. Wizarding fine dress here in Paris is even more ostentatious than the stuff in England. Graves sees a man with a dark blue tailcoat that trails off into a peacock’s train and a woman wearing a dress like something Queen Elizabeth could have pulled off.

“Welcome,” James says, holding out his arms, “to L'étoile d'Eiffel!”

“This is incredible,” Credence breathes.

“James always did know how to have a good time,” Graves says.

On a stage at the front of the room, a trio of gorgeous women in flowing dresses sway and sing beautiful melodies, backed by a full band. Their voices are particularly extremely lovely, but do not seem to have the effect on Graves that they do on Theseus and Jacob, whose eyes are positively glazed.

“If I’d had any idea they’d have Veela singing tonight…” James grumbles, taking Theseus’ arm. He shakes the other man a little. “Go on, wake up! No drifting off now!”

“Veela?” Queenie giggles. “Oh, good that Tina isn’t here, she’d leave Newt for them!”

Credence blinks, clearly unaffected by the song. “What are Veela?”

“Magical beings whose song and dance can hypnotize and seduce people who swing the right way,” James explains. He steers them over to a table in the corner, handing a small card to a suited waiter as they pass. “Unfortunately, Theseus and Jacob like the ladies…rather more than the rest of us.”

“Those Veela ain’t much,” Jacob says valiantly, shaking himself. His gaze keeps drifting, but he tries. “Not next to Queenie!”

“Flatterer,” Queenie murmurs, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s just magic, honey. I won’t take any offense.”

Graves shakes his head. “Glad we’re clear of that,” he says to Credence. “We’re lucky.”

Theseus keeps looking over his shoulder. “You are, and I’m doomed.”

Queenie laughs as crystal flutes of champagne, bubbles bursting into shimmering golden sparks as they reach the surface of the drink, appear on the table in front of each of them. “Poor Theseus!” she says, delicately picking up her flute and raising it. “To our future happiness!”

“To us,” Credence echoes, glancing around at all of them.

Graves feels warm all over even before he drinks. The champagne is smooth, light and airy, the bubbles bursting on his tongue pleasantly. It’s exceptionally good stuff, better than anything Graves has had in a long time.

“Wait, wait!” Jacob says. He looks at Graves and Credence, beaming. “We’ve forgotten why we’re here. To Mr. _and Mr._ Graves!”

Credence turns a violent shade of red and Graves covers his face with his hands as, laughing, the others raise a glass. Any tension remaining from the day is completely broken, and they fall to talking as if nothing bad has ever happened. Graves can’t help thinking constantly of the fact that, if only by shared affection, he and Credence are _married._ It makes him smile every time he thinks of it.

Dinner is delightful: James and Theseus conspire to order for them all, refusing to even let the others have the menu, though Queenie does her level best to snatch it from them. When it comes, the food is delicious. It’s been so long since Graves had French food that he can’t remember what any of the dishes are, or how to pronounce a single name. Each plate is delivered by magic, simply popping into existence at the table before each. A light soup, an aromatic beef dish, and a dessert of chocolate mousse leave Graves feeling pleasantly full.

“I think we should dance,” Jacob says, when the last dishes are cleared away. He stands and takes Queenie’s hand. “First dance?”

“Of course,” she says, and they go out onto the floor, vanishing in the crowd.

James glances between Credence and Graves. “…if it’s not too strange,” he says, “may I have a dance, Percy?”

He’d like to dance with James, but…Graves glances at Credence first. Credence smiles at him. “Go on, you old sentimentalist,” he says, leaning over to brush his lips briefly against Graves’ cheek. With a grateful smile, Graves stands and he and James step out onto the floor.

“It’s been a long time,” Graves says, as they fall into the crowd and catch the rhythm of the music. “I might not be very good.”

“I’ll make up for that,” James says. “I’m phenomenal.”

Graves shakes his head. “You’re the most humble man I’ve ever met.”

“Guilty as charged,” James says. He’s leading this dance, guiding Graves past the swirl of other couples. Graves catches a glimpse of Queenie and Jacob, whirling together with expert precision; clearly, those two go out dancing often. He smiles. Out of everyone, they’ve always been the happiest.

“We owe you for all this,” Graves says after a moment.

James scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, we do.” Graves squeezes James’ hand a little tighter. “Pulled us out of a fire and jumped into the frying pan with us.”

“It’s not entirely altruistic,” James admits. He smiles ruefully. “I was never meant to retire. You know I was in Veyshnoria for a while…an exciting position, and before that I was traveling the world and making a name for myself.”

“Clearly, you did pretty well.” Pointedly, Graves looks around at the gorgeous room.

James shrugs. “This was well before retirement. Theseus did well for himself when he resigned—I should have gone into private life, but never got around to it. This is the first excitement I’ve seen in a few years.” He pauses, and adds, “Of course _you_ brought it to my doorstep.”

“ _You_ told me once that I was trouble,” Graves says, feeling suddenly twenty-five again and on his first day in the Auror Office.

The dance is ending and James bows; Graves follows. “You’re still trouble,” James says as they step off the floor. “And still the kind of trouble I like.”

As they approach the table, Theseus is in the middle of raising a toast with a grin on his face and Credence is laughing. They look up as James and Graves arrive. “Having fun, I see,” Graves says, sliding into the seat beside Credence again.

“We absolutely are,” Credence says.

New musicians, jazz players from America, have taken the stage. James offers Theseus a hand. “I think it’s your turn, old chap.”

“Don’t you ‘old chap’ me. You’re the old one between us,” Theseus says, rolling his eyes as he stands. He smiles, though, and lets James haul him away.

Graves looks at Credence. “Interested?”

The trumpet player improvises a particularly speedy piece. Credence looks alarmed. “Oh, no, let’s wait for something…slower.”

“All right,” Graves says. He leans back in his chair, twirling a nearly-empty glass between his index finger and thumb. “It’s a wonderful night so far.  

“You’re—” Credence starts. He stops, staring past Graves at the door. “Percival. Look.”

Graves turns and is instantly horrified.

The crowd parts for a woman dressed ostentatiously and outlandishly even by the standards of this gathering, sweeping through them like she doesn’t know they’re there. Her dress is sculpted exactly to fit her body like a glove, halter-backed and just brushing the floor, glittering with what has to be thousands of crystals. And it’s completely sheer, leaving nothing to the imagination, tawny skin only barely veiled by the gown. With her blonde hair held back in a wrap and above-the elbow gloves that sparkle with the same crystals, and a white fur stole that just barely preserves her modesty, she’s easily the most beautiful woman in the room. And she’s coming directly over to Credence and Graves.

In the space of a breath, Graves pulls himself together. He rises to his feet and offers his hand to her. “Good God, Picquery! You know how to make an entrance.”

She smiles, taking his hand. “It’s what I do best.”

Credence stands, too, pulling out an empty chair for her and letting her sit first. “I’m sure you aren’t here just for pleasantries,” Graves says, as he resumes his seat. “What happened that sent you to us?”

“The assembly made its decision,” Picquery says. “And I thought you should know, before the news breaks tomorrow.”

Credence tenses. He fists his hands in his lap and glances sideways at Graves. It’s a bit of a trick to remain calm and unruffled, but Graves manages it. “Go ahead,” he says.

Picquery’s smile takes on an icy edge. “They’re going to pursue the lead of calming the Obscurial and removing it from Grindelwald’s influence.” For a second, Graves’ heart leaps. They’ve done it!

And then she continues: “But they’ve formed their own special task force to undertake the job. You’ve been barred from participating. And they’ve decided not to pursue an assault on Nurmengard.”

“ _What_!?” Graves sees red. “What were you doing in there!?”

“There wasn’t a damn thing I could do!” she snarls back, all pleasantry gone. “Thanks to your _husband’s_ testimony, all progress we were making toward confronting Grindelwald head on is _gone_!”

Graves leans forward. “We had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, yes you did.” Picquery glares at both of them. “The Statute of Secrecy is the highest priority for the most powerful countries. And all-out war? That could blow the Statute all to hell. But we had our coalition together. We were moving toward getting America and Britain and Russia on board with launching a full assault on Grindelwald and running the risk. They were scared enough of what Grindelwald can do with an Obscurial at his command that they were swinging our way. It was going according to plan!”

“And what did we change?” Graves demands.

Picquery stares directly at Credence. “You showed up with your bleeding-heart testimony. You handed them an alternative and the whole thing _disintegrated_.”

Credence rocks back in his chair. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

A muscle in Picquery’s jaw twitches. “You have no idea what you’re even sorry for.”

“I…”

“That was _years_ of planning. Ya Zhou has been fighting her whole country to get them on board with taking the offensive against Grindelwald, even though he’s got no foothold there yet. She’s been working for almost three years to prepare for this moment.” Her face is flushed in fury, fur stole disarrayed with her furious gestures. “You’ve no idea the what’s been happening out there. The Russians are terrified to make bold moves that would jeopardize their country. Half of South America and half of Africa wants to outright _join_ Grindelwald because he’s making promises we damn well know he won’t keep, but they say are better alternatives to the Statute of Secrecy. We had America and Britain _seconds_ from joining us…and then you walked into the room.”

Graves puts a hand on Credence’s shoulder. “He—we—had no idea.”

Picquery resettles her stole around her body. “I know he didn’t,” she says, looking suddenly very tired. “But I had no idea what you’d _do_ , or I might have tried to contact you beforehand.”

“We were in contact with Albus Dumbledore,” Graves says. “He assured us—”

“He’s _British!_ ” Picquery cries. Her voice is lost among the clamor of the room, but the anguish on her face is clear. “What did you expect from someone trying to keep the Statute in place at all costs? He knew very well that Credence’s testimony would pull the rug right out from under us! We lost that trial, and we might never regain that ground!”

Credence leans forward then. “What do you want us to do?” he asks, twisting his fingers in the white tablecloth. “I can’t take back what I said. And I wouldn’t, if I could.”

“Is that child’s life more important than the lives of everyone else?” Picquery asks, looking him dead in the eyes.

“Yes,” Credence says without hesitation.

Graves shakes his head, letting go of Credence and leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He smiles grimly. “What did you expect him to say? You’ve ordered Obscurials dead before.”

“I know,” Picquery says. “And I’d give that order again in a heartbeat.”

“For what?” Credence snarls. The shadows flicker. “For the _Greater Good_? How does that make you better than Grindelwald?”

“I’ve never claimed to be better than he is,” Picquery says. She looks down at the tablecloth and an inexpressible sadness passes over her face.

Some part of Graves, the one that still thinks of the power of Obscurials as weapons, understands that sadness all too well.

Silence settles over the table.

At last, Picquery raises her head. “You know what will happen to that child if they find it first.”

“First?” Graves asks.

“Do you honestly expect that I’ll believe that the decree of the Confederation will stop you from chasing the Obscurial?” Picquery inquires.

Graves barks out a laugh, surprised. “You know us too well.”

“I ordered that you not get involved the _last_ time we went chasing an Obscurial, and now you’re married to him,” Picquery says dryly. “You’ll be looking for it.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “I can’t just…I can’t walk away.”

“Then you get that child,” Picquery says. “Because the Confederation is either going to find the child and kill them, or they’ll dither and delay and Grindelwald will gain more ground. And maybe tear down another city.”

Credence nods. “We won’t let that happen.”

“Good,” Picquery says. The crystals on her gloves scratch together a little when she picks up a glass of wine that’s courteously appeared before her on the table, as if it’s sensed a new guest. She takes a sip. “I trust you with that.”

“And what will you be doing, while we’re out doing your dirty work?” Graves asks. It’s comfortingly familiar, to be at her beck and call again. Tonight has been one long dance with the past and this conversation is really no exception.

Picquery’s smile is cold. “I’ll be here, pulling together the resources we’re going to need if we ever manage a full assault on Grindelwald. You can trust that the second the Confederation makes its move, I’ll be on the front lines.”

Graves nods slowly. “I don’t doubt that you will be.”

There’s another pause. He sees James and Theseus, still dancing but clearly keeping their eye on what’s happening at the table in the corner; Queenie and Jacob are chatting with a group of wizards nearby and Graves can see that Jacob’s looking at them frequently. Everyone is aware of what’s happening now, and wary.

“I should go,” Picquery says.

“You just got here,” Graves protests mildly, if only for the sake of good form and not making things worse tonight. “Stay. Have a drink. What, did you get all dressed up for no good reason?”

Picquery smiles. “I have plenty of good reason,” she says. “Just not here. There are other things that I want to do tonight.” She raises her glass. “To your future happiness.” With one final sip, she rises and sweeps away across the floor, back out the door and out of sight.

Immediately the other four swarm back to the table. “What was that about?” Theseus demands.

“She came to talk to us about what happened at the assembly after we left,” Credence says.

Jacob looks after her. “It was bad news, wasn’t it.”

“We can discuss it tomorrow,” Graves says. He smiles, with a little effort, and rises. “Credence, I think you promised me a dance, when things slowed down…?”

Credence takes the offered hand and stands. “I did,” he says.

Graves pulls him into the crowd, out of sight of their friends. “Is this slow enough?”

“Yes,” Credence says, stepping in to rest his hand on Graves’ waist. Graves’ hand is on Credence’s shoulder. They’re very close, not quite as close as they were years ago in the suitcase when they first danced together, for the fashions of dancing have changed, but close all the same.

It’s a lovely dance, but Graves can’t quite shake off the thoughts that Picquery’s appearance planted in his head. He blinks when Credence leans closer and says softly, “Worry about tomorrow when it happens. Just…enjoy tonight.”

“I’ll try,” Graves says.

He must not have worked fast enough to dismiss those thoughts. Credence expedites their disappearance: he leans in and kisses Graves lightly, and that makes Graves smile. He doesn’t stop, after that, and it feels as if they’re floating away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eiffel Tower at night: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citro%C3%ABn#/media/File:Tour_Eiffel_Citroen.jpg
> 
> “winking and blinking like a million shining eyes”: from the musical Captain Louie. No one’s ever heard of it. I love it.
> 
> Did I just canonize bisexual Tina? Yes. Yes I did.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo my life hit the fan, and we have our first official I Forgot To Post A Chapter moment! 
> 
> My apologies--I do believe we'll survive finals without that happening again. <3 <3 <3

Day comes much too early, and with it the need to confront all of the challenges ahead. Graves and Credence talk as they dress and pack again. There’s not a lot to be said: they’re in the same place regarding things to come. The decision, if it ever was a decision, was made long ago.

They tell all at breakfast. Everything that Picquery told them last night. Graves watches the faces around as he explains calmly what’s happened. Outrage, mostly; some confusion and resignation. The news isn’t pleasant. But Credence and Graves, at least, have a plan.

“What now?” Queenie asks, breaking the silence that falls when Graves stops speaking.

“It’s obvious, ain’t it?” Jacob says. “We’ve got to do something.”

“What, and become international fugitives?” James says.

Tina and Newt say nothing. Tina’s gazing at Graves with hard eyes; Newt’s looking down at Young Theseus on his lap. Theseus is studying Credence and Graves with a narrow gaze.

It’s Credence’s task to explain what comes next, because this is truly Credence’s fight. “We did it before,” he says softly.

Queenie sighs heavily. Graves takes Credence’s hand and squeezes it. “Go on.”

“Percival and I spoke last night,” Credence says. “Just because everything’s changing now…doesn’t mean it’s never been this way before. All we’ve got is each other, the people around this table right now. And…this, this is a war, a real one. We can’t walk away.”

“We did that before, too,” Newt says. “Walked away.”

Jacob shakes his head. “I think I get it,” he says. “You can’t walk away from every fight.

“We don’t have a choice.” Credence looks at Graves, then around again. “There’s a child out there. A child like I was, or like Young Theseus could be. A child who needs help, who won’t be helped if the Confederation gets their hands on them. I can’t—I _won’t_ —walk away from this.”

“And I’m not letting him go alone,” Graves says, surveying the table. “No matter what, the two of us are going to find the Obscurial. If that means challenging Grindelwald…challenging the Confederation…that’s what we’ll do. We won’t ask any of you to go. It’s going to be a rough run, and we don’t know where it will end.”

“We didn’t know that before, either,” Tina says. She leans forward, elbows on the table. “We threw in everything we had for you two. And…I don’t know about the rest of you, but I won’t leave another child like that.”

 

“And _your_ child?” Graves asks them.

Tina shakes her head. “I don’t want to put him in danger, but I’m not sure that there’s anywhere really safe for him. Better that he’s with us.

Jacob and Queenie exchange a wordless look. Queenie nods slightly, and Jacob looks at Credence and Graves. “We’re in,” he says.

“Let me get this straight,” Theseus says. “You six are planning to charge in and challenge the International Confederation of Wizards and Grindelwald, for the sake of a kid you don’t even know who’s already destroyed Rome once, possibly ending in the deaths of everyone involved. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Credence says.

Theseus grins savagely. “Then you can count me in,” he says. “I’ve been waiting a long damn time for someone to take some kind of action. I’m with you.”

Graves looks to his left. “James?” he says.

“Of course,” James says. He looks at Graves for a long moment, then Graves nods. All’s well.

There’s another long silence at the table. Young Theseus even seems to sense the gravity of the moment, looking around at them all with his small face scrunched. Around them, life goes on; they’re at the eye of a hurricane.

“It’s settled, then,” Graves says. “We leave tomorrow.”

“We can’t look like we’re just haring off in flagrant violation of the Confederation’s orders,” Theseus points out. “We need a cover story.”

Queenie leans in, a smile pulling at her lips. “Well, Percival and Credence just got married,” she says. “How about a honeymoon—a tour of Europe?”

“I do like that,” Newt says. “I can look in on some business, too.”

“And I have a house in Switzerland,” James says. He shrugs when all eyes turn to him in sheer befuddlement. “Left to me by a very grateful and wealthy wizard. Lovely older gent.”

Graves sighs. “ _James_.”

“Favors, Percy,” James says. “Politics is about making friends.”

“We should start in Italy, right?” Jacob says. “Rome?”

“That’s where it all began,” Theseus says. “So—to Switzerland first, and then to Italy?”

Graves nods. “That’s a plan,” he says. “Better than what Credence and I could have done alone.”

Tina laughs suddenly, resting her head in her hands. “We’re really going to do this.”

“We’re going to do this,” Credence confirms. “We’re going to find the Obscurial.”

 

***

 

In the spirit of a honeymoon, they decide that taking the train is the best course of action. Slow travel by Muggle means, that’s the way to deflect suspicion. Theseus even goes to far as to dash off a letter to Sebastian Longbottom and his friend Marcus Slughorn, mentioning that he won’t be in his office for a while because Newt has invited him along to see some creatures in Europe.

“They’ll all just roll their eyes at the Scamander boys running off on mad adventures,” Theseus says with a smile. He ruffles Newt’s hair and Newt, ever long-suffering, simply rolls his eyes.

They arrive early at the train station of Gare du Nord, a crowd of eight plus a child. For once in their travels, they look anything but motley. All of them are well-dressed and styled; the only oddity is that the child is being carried about in a small red wagon instead of a more conventional pram or stroller. Otherwise, they could be any group of ordinary people together on holiday.

In the lead are James and Graves, deep in discussion of routes and tickets. It seems to have been generally accepted that Graves will manage their strategy, while James will be his first officer; this feels a great deal what it was like when they were Aurors. Theseus, Queenie, and Jacob follow, with Theseus filling Queenie and Jacob in on the intricacies of Confederation policies. Tina is reading a map as she walks and is absently being led with one hand by Newt, whose other hand is occupied with towing the wagon carrying Young Theseus and the suitcase. Credence brings up the rear, walking beside Young Theseus and playing with him.

The child keeps throwing things out of the wagon as they move along, watching and laughing as they bounce behind him. Credence keeps Summoning them back unobtrusively, to the child’s delight; it’s a strange game of wizarding catch. Graves rolls his eyes every time: this is unwise, but Credence won’t listen when Graves tries to tell him off.

Gare du Nord is full of people, a crush of crowd. Overhead is the great iron-vaulted ceiling, glass letting pale light shine down into the golden space. Smoke from train engines and from cigarettes fills the air, the smell of hot iron overlaying it. Engines scream through the station and bells clamor; aside from that, the sound of dozens of language makes this feel like some Tower of Babel. And the trains: long strings of cars stretching across the station between long wide platforms. Men in black suits and flat brimmed caps keep people back from the barriers and take tickets as passengers surge past. It’s a terrifying and magnificent sight. Somehow, not even the great entry hall of MACUSA headquarters in New York quite compares to this.

The press of the crowd is utterly overwhelming and the whole group packs together. Credence is visibly nervous, Queenie keeps rubbing her head as if it aches, and Newt looks tense. But Young Theseus has the worst of it. He begins to whimper and then to cry, gulping sobs, kicking at the sides of the wagon.

Tina scoops Young Theseus out of the wagon and holds him close. “Newt, we’re going to get over by the wall—out of the way—”

Jacob nudges Queenie. “Go with her,” he says. “We’ll handle things here.”

Graves watches the three of them disappear into the crowd, Tina guiding. “They’ll be fine,” he says. “But we need tickets.”

“Let me handle it,” James and Theseus say in unison.

It takes some doing—and James’ flawless French—to purchase the appropriate tickets to get them to Switzerland, close to their destination. Newt steps out of sight briefly to put away Young Theseus’ wagon, dropping it safely out of sight into the suitcase. Graves loiters and watches the crowd, keeping an eye out for trouble and scanning for Queenie and Tina. By the time that the tickets are purchased, Graves has spotted the two of them standing in a quiet corner.

“I’ll go retrieve the ladies,” Credence volunteers. “The rest of you—find Platform Three!”

Platform Three is not hard to find. The train isn’t leaving for a little while, so they have time to find one another. When Queenie, Tina, and Credence catch up, Queenie looks like she really has a nasty headache. Jacob takes her hand.

Young These spots Newt and immediately calls for “Mum! Mum!”

Newt takes him from Tina. “Oof…you’re very heavy, young man,” he says, tapping Young Theseus on the nose. The child giggles.  

The train pulls out of the station at one in the afternoon, going from Paris to Lausanne in Switzerland. It will be a full eight hours before their arrival; they’ll stay overnight at a hotel in Lausanne before traveling to the town of Crans-Montana where James has his chalet. The compartment is not an overnight compartment, but there is dining service on the train, which is pleasant.

In the large compartment, there’s space enough for them all to sit. As usual, Credence still sits on the floor to stretch out his legs. Graves sits by the window, watching the scenery roll by. The train sways as it travels, a regular and soothing rhythm.

“I’ve got to confess that this is new,” Theseus says, looking out the window of the train. He looks like a Leyendecker illustration, handsome and the image of manly beauty. “I’ve seen views like this before but never on the ground. It’s…much nicer than a broomstick.”

Graves smiles. “Sometimes the No-Majs really get things right,” he says.

“Hear that, Scamander?” Jacob says smugly. “Even one of the greatest wizards of the age can admit that.”

“Didn’t _I_ just admit it?” Theseus grumbles. He’s smiling, though.

Credence leans back against Graves’ legs. Young Theseus is asleep on Tina’s lap, and she herself is leaning against Newt. He’s got a book open on his lap—some book about molluscs, Graves thinks—and absently strokes Tina’s hair as he reads. Queenie naps, head pillowed on Graves’ folded jacket, Jacob’s jacket draped over her knees. Jacob and Theseus argue merrily, with occasional commentary from James.

Graves rests his hand on Credence’s shoulder. Credence hums and leans into the touch. Graves, strangely, feels a pleasant and peaceful nostalgia. He feels a little more lighthearted just being on board this train. There’s danger ahead, behind, and on all sides, and probably from above. But for now, with sun sliding across the compartment floor and warming him through, Graves can lazily believe that nothing in the world can possibly go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Theseus’ wagon is definitely an early Radio Flyer little red wagon. It would either be called a “Liberty Coaster” or a “Radio Flyer”, depending on exactly when the name change happened—I couldn’t determine the exact date.


	29. Chapter 29

It’s just slightly after nine o’clock when they pull into the train station in Lausanne. Disembarking is messy and chaotic, among all the passengers coming from France to Switzerland, but James knows exactly where he’s going. The streets are dark, but he guides them unerringly to a good hotel which has four rooms easily available.

The night passes pleasantly. Credence and Graves are too tired for strenuous activity, and content themselves with a few lazy, exhausted kisses before falling asleep in the soft hotel bed. They rise late: this is the first time either of them have slept properly in the last week and a half since their flight from Godric’s Hollow.

After they get downstairs, Graves enjoys getting to be half-asleep for most of the morning and waking up slow. Credence is awake and active but focuses his attention on other people. Newt, especially, is a morning person; Theseus and Jacob are close seconds.

Breakfast is delicious: bread rolls with butter and jam, cold cheese and meat, hard-boiled eggs, fresh fruit, birchermüesli (or oatmeal, in Young Theseus’ case), and plenty of hot coffee. Young Theseus turns out to enjoy the eggs—or, at least, the word egg.

“Oatmeal, Thes,” Newt says.

Young Theseus looks up at Newt. “Egg.”

“Oatmeal,” Newt repeats.

Taking up the spoon and digging it carefully into the oatmeal, Young Theseus pronounces solemnly, “Egg.”

Theseus is smirking, and Queenie pointedly has her napkin over her mouth. None of them want to laugh; that will only make Young Theseus more stubborn. Still, Graves can’t help a small snort of laughter, quickly stifled.

But Young Theseus must have heard him, because he looks around at them all and says through a mouthful of oatmeal, “Egg!”

“Oh no,” Tina says, putting her face in her hands. “He’ll be repeating that all day.”

“Egg, Mama,” Young Theseus says. He looks up at Newt, smiling broadly. “Egg, Mum!”

Newt looks up at the ceiling. “Fine,” he says. “It’s all eggs now.”

The trip up from Lausanne to Crans-Montana is beautiful. They pass along the shore of Lake Geneva, its wide flat surface gleaming like steel in the sun. The mountains are glorious. Graves remembers the Rocky Mountains and knows the sweep of the Ural Mountains. Both ranges sprawl in ancient craggy glory, vast and wide, but ground down by time, the backbones of the Earth. The Alps are sharp, towering over them like steep cliffs, their crisp jagged peaks capped in snow.

Two cars are necessary to carry them up to the mountains. Of course Jacob can drive, and to no one’s surprise so can Newt. It’s four to a car. Graves goes with Jacob, Credence, and Theseus. Jacob and Theseus are up front, which leaves Credence and Graves in the back. Out of sight of the public, Graves wraps an arm around Credence’s shoulders, and Credence sinks into him happily. Graves relaxes, too, as the car bumps up into the mountains.

They drive up and up and up. The trees shed dappled light over the forest floor. Their leaves ripple in the faint breeze. It’s a fairy-tale forest. “I’ve always liked Switzerland,” Theseus says. He leans his elbow against the window. “Some of the best Aurors on the Continent.”

Graves shrugs. He’s known plenty of Swiss Aurors, and they are indeed very good. “That’s because they’ve got the tightest hold on the Statute in the world. Except for Veyshnoria.”

Theseus laughs. “Only because they’re protecting non-signatory states!”

Half a second later, Jacob nearly hits the brakes and Credence sits bolt upright, throwing off Graves’ arm. “What? Non-signatories?”

“You don’t think that everyone signed on?” Theseus asks, twisting to look at Credence. “There are a few. All under another state’s protection and jurisdiction, of course—most Unplottable, too. I know Switzerland, Tibet, and Chad are protecting a few—there’s one in northern Canada, but the population is so thin up there that the Canadians don’t have to do much.”

“How come we didn’t know?” Jacob demands, turning to look at Theseus.

“It isn’t common knowledge,” Graves says. “They don’t come up in papers.” He’s got an uncomfortable feeling that he should have told Credence sooner, but it’s a little late now.

Theseus shrugs. “The non-signatory states can observe Confederation proceedings and might be invited to speak on matters of international importance, but they have no say in the voting. No one pays them any mind.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jacob mutters.

The car bumps along for a few hundred yards before Graves finally speaks again. “All governments censor things,” he says. He has to make some effort at explanation, even if he suspects that nothing he can say will change anyone’s opinion. “The Censorship Office is the reason I wasn’t immediately found guilty of treason in the court of public opinion. It’s also the reason that Credence’s existence was kept largely secret from the public. I’m sure censors around the world are hard at work on Rome already.”

“You mean to tell me,” Jacob says, “that there ain’t anyone who’ll know about what really happened in the attack on Rome? Or that Grindelwald has an Obscurial at all?”

“Yes,” Theseus says somberly.

This is an unsettling discussion and they drop it quickly. Graves knows that he wasn’t deliberately keeping secrets. And he’s sure Credence knows that too. It was only an oversight; there are only so many hours in a day to talk. But still…how many other secrets has he accidentally kept from Credence?

 

***

 

The chalet is pleasant, if extremely musty. It’s really small, not even a ski lodge, so the cleaning doesn’t take long. Credence doesn’t insist on doing things by hand, for once, and Graves makes endless fun of him for it. Windows are thrown open, floors sweep themselves, curtains shake out and sheets—smelling as crisp as if they’d been hung out on a line for hours—make themselves on beds. The place is well furnished, but impersonal: clearly, James doesn’t spend much time in this house, for all that it’s his.

“I like it better full of people,” James says, when Credence asks. “I don’t like to be alone.”

Tina, carrying a basket of clean linens, slings an arm over his shoulders. “Well, we’re here now,” she says cheerfully.

“You are. And life’s gotten very interesting,” James says, before wandering off to clean the kitchen cupboards.

They gather in the very-nearly-empty living room when everything’s clean and in order. There’s furniture here, and a few pictures on the walls, but it’s all very impersonal. Decorated by someone who isn’t James. He’s plainly not a part of the room, and he looks it, standing near the wall. Newt sits with Young Theseus; Credence sits as well. Tina drops down cross-legged on the floor. Graves and Theseus sit in armchairs; Queenie perches on the arm of Theseus’ chair. Jacob stands by the window.

“Where do we go from here?” Theseus asks after a few moments.

“Italy,” Credence says with a shrug.

Tina shakes her head. “Yes, but where in Italy? It’s a whole country that we don’t have time to search if we want to find the Obscurial before anyone else can.”

“They ain’t staying in Rome,” Jacob says. “If half the world’s got Aurors looking there, any smart wizard will go to ground somewhere else. And Grindelwald’s smart.”

“And they’re traveling with a child,” Newt says. “We can’t discount that they might have a young adult—like you, Credence—but I think the probability is that the child is under the age of fifteen. Ariana Dumbledore was fourteen when she died, and she was exceptional.”

Credence nods slowly. “It’s hard to make it,” he says. Graves hears the awkward silence, the cue that everyone has just become very uncomfortable. “It will be a kid.”

“They won’t want to be seen with a child, unless there’s a parent or someone who can pass for a guardian,” Graves says. He folds his arms. “And Grindelwald will want his weapon well-protected. It does him no good to lose the child to the Confederation.”

“Venice,” James says, unexpectedly.

Graves looks at him. “What?”

James gestures with his wand and a flat map, glowing soft lines of golden light, unfurls in the air in front of him. It shows Italy, its cities points of sharp white. “There were rumors of Grindelwald’s activity in Venice just before I retired,” he says. “And I’ve kept my ear to the ground. No one can prove anything, but it’s an absolute hotbed of illegal activity anyway.”

“That’s true,” Newt says. “Percival—remember I told you about this? Almost all smuggled creatures, if they’re from Asia or Africa, pass through Venice on their way into Europe.”

“So if that child is being transported—they’ll be in Venice,” James says, pointing with his wand to the city on the northern coast.

“Aurors are being stationed in ports all over Europe,” Queenie says unexpectedly. “Heard it from more than one delegate. Venice will be watched, too.”

Tina nods, getting to her feet and examining the map. It sparkles and shimmers when she steps through it, gazing at the network of lines and points of brilliant light. “They won’t make their move quite yet. We’re looking for a large group of foreigners, likely protecting a child and a guardian, in Venice.”

“It’s not a sure thing,” Graves warns.

“It might be complete tosh,” Theseus says, “but then again, I trust James and Newt.”

Credence nods. “All right,” he says. “To Venice.”


	30. Chapter 30

Of course they don’t go off to Venice immediately. Everyone is beyond exhausted. The last few days have been nonstop running, panic, terror, and fighting for their lives. And, besides, as Theseus points out that evening over dinner: “We’re supposed to be on a beast-finding honeymoon. Tearing straight off to Italy will look suspicious, don’t you think?”

Generally, they do think. Credence is champing at the bit, but, as he exasperatedly tells James when he asks, he knows very well that launching off half-cocked like this is a bad idea. Besides, Graves reminds everyone that this gives them a chance to put together an idea of what they’ll actually do in Venice, and how best they can divert suspicion from themselves.

“The identity of the child, as we learned in New York,” Newt says, in tones of a lecturer, “is going to be hard to uncover without actually triggering the Obscurus.” For once, neither he nor Tina are holding Young Theseus: exhausted by their chaotic last few days, the little boy is fast asleep on his little cot in the second bedroom, where Newt and Tina are sleeping while Queenie and Jacob occupy a guest room in the suitcase. He’s in easy earshot, in case of nightmares, but otherwise has been left undisturbed.

“And that we don’t want,” Graves says dryly. He takes a bite of the chicken, which has been cooked to perfection. Between himself, Queenie, Jacob, and Newt—who is a remarkable chef, in addition to all his other talents—dinner tonight is practically a feast. Cheese souffle, potato salad, browned parsnips, green peas, fried tomatoes, broiled chicken; and, for a dessert, peaches and cream.

Unfortunately, very few people are paying attention to the food.

“Unless you can do something about that…?” Jacob says, voice rising until it’s a question.

Everyone looks at Credence. All eyes are upon him. And Credence hesitates. “I’d be able to tell, I think, if I got near enough,” he says without elaboration. “And I could definitely contain them. They’re younger than I am. Less finesse.”

“Yes, as if we want two of the most powerful magical beings in existence ripping each other apart in the middle of a Muggle city,” Theseus says dryly. “I think we’d better assume that we won’t be able to identify the Obscurial except by proximity to Grindelwald’s people.”

Silence falls again. It’s uncomfortable this time, everyone thinking forward to what comes next when they go to Venice. Graves wonders when the parsnips became so tasteless.

Jacob clears his throat. “The parsnips are delicious,” he says heartily. Queenie chokes on her drink and stifles a giggle behind her hand.

“So,” Tina says, throwing an odd look at her sister, “what do we do until we do leave?”

Queenie leans forward, elbow on table and chin in hand. “Well, Mr. McGuinness,” she says with a roguish smile, “you’re the one who lives around here. What should we do?”

James leans back, setting down his fork. “It’s not so far down to Chillon Castle,” he says. “A day trip there—it’s got some magical significance, and—”

“We could look for Tatzelwurm,” Newt says to his plate. “Little stubby creatures, miniature dragons of a sort. They hole up in old castles and places all around Europe.”

“I like that idea,” Theseus says, with a brilliant grin. He claps Newt on the shoulder and Newt jumps, but when he looks up he’s smiling. “So. Tatzelwurm-hunting and a visit to Chillon Castle!”

Tina badly muffles a yawn behind her napkin. Jacob smiles across the table at her. “Maybe we should have a late start,” he says.

Graves yawns widely, shaking his head and blinking. “I like that plan.”

Newt coughs delicately. “Credence keep you up too late last night, Percival?”

Credence turns scarlet—it goes right down to his hands—but Graves is undisturbed. “Actually, I think I kept him awake,” he says serenely. Queenie chokes and Tina thumps her on the back. Still serene, Graves gestures at the fried tomatoes. “Would someone mind passing the eggs?”

Theseus and Jacob roar with laughter as Tina mock-sobs, dropping her head onto her arms on the table. Queenie pats her sister on the head, giggling. James, smirking, hands the plate of tomatoes to Credence, who passes them to Graves.

Newt leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling in what is apparently mild despair. “I suppose the eggs will haunt us forever.”

After dinner, they go outside. The sun’s gone down behind the mountains, but the sky is still alight. Graves and Credence sit on the porch steps. “Stuck like glue, hm?” Newt asks as he passes by.

On the grass, the others sit to talk. Queenie chats with Newt about chemistry and what she’s been reading lately, while Jacob and Theseus argue merrily again about the point of cars. At this point they just seem to be arguing for fun; Tina listens and laughs at both of them.

James sits on Graves’ other side, at a respectable distance. “You know,” he says, “one would expect us to gather for whiskey and cigars after dinner.”

“This is much more wholesome, I think,” Graves says. “I can’t stand firewhiskey.”

Credence shudders. “It burns going down.”

James laughs. “That’s the point!”

“I’m questioning your taste,” Graves says.

“You remember when liquor was legal in the States and you and I used to actually go to Muggle taverns together?” James asks.

“I carried you home more than once,” Graves dryly. He leans against Credence, not quite putting his arm around him. “How could I forget?”

James leans forward to look at Credence. “Am I right in assuming you don’t drink?”

“I was raised by a mother who was a rabid, frothing member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union,” Credence says. “If I’d have ever had a drink while under her roof, I think she’d have thrown me off a bridge.”

“Your mother was the worst person I have ever met,” Tina calls out.

“I agree, and I’ve met Grindelwald,” Queenie says, wrinkling her nose.

“I’d prefer not to make that comparison,” Graves says. “They’re equally terrible.”

“Fair,” Credence mutters.

“Tell me that you at least got the boy a drink once, Percy,” James says.

“Their first date was at a speakeasy, chaperoned by Al Capone himself,” Jacob says with a grin.

“What?”

“I’m still mad I missed that,” Newt pipes up. “I should have gone!”

“My mother would have had a conniption, me running with gangsters and drinking illegal liquor in a speakeasy with a man—a witch!—I loved,” Credence says smugly.

Jacob snaps his fingers. “What say we have a drink in her name?”

“Capital idea,” Theseus says, getting to his feet.

Graves laughs. “James, we’ll have that firewhiskey after all!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Whiskey and cigars”: shoutout to my other fandom, Dishonored fans represent!
> 
> The Women’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) was a major activist in temperance movements in the United States, as well as suffrage. It was also deeply invested in the Americanization of immigrants (for the _horrifically_ racist rationale that immigrants were thought to be more prone to alcoholism), purity legislation, poverty alleviation (because of alcohol as a potential cause), and better working conditions for labor. The good, the bad, and the ugly, all on full display. 
> 
> A note, because my beta reader asked about this during editing: yes, Credence still refers to wizards as witches. I've tried to keep consistency in how people speak, so Graves still calls people No-Majs instead of Muggles, and so does Tina. I do my best to have Newt and Theseus...appropriately British. Credence is the kind of person to stubbornly insist that they're witches, so that's how I write him. :)


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm REALLY sorry about this posting mess...I JUST realized this morning that I absolutely forgot to post Monday. I'm up to my eyes in final essays and this just...slipped my mind.
> 
> ALSO: if any of you are interested, the Fantastic Beasts fic calendar is open for 2019. If you'd like to claim a week, check out the tumblr here: https://fantasticbeastscalendar.tumblr.com/. The AO3 collection is here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FantasticBeastsCalendar2019
> 
> I'd really like to encourage all the writers reading this to sign up!
> 
> For your reference in this chapter, you may wish to read “the western front."

Two hours later, the whiskey may have been something of a mistake.

It turns out that old soldiers get rather maudlin, when they’re drunk, and fully five of them are real soldiers. Tina had certainly been an Auror, but hadn’t really engaged with the fighting in the way that the others had; all of them, in their own way, had fought in the Great War. Until tonight, Graves really had no idea how much it affected him, let alone the others.

They’re in the living room, Credence on the floor at Tina’s feet playing with Young Theseus while she sits in the armchair. Queenie has a corner of the sofa beside Jacob and Graves; the other three men are in armchairs of their own.

“—Front was just mud,” Theseus says, gesturing widely. “Vile. Wet all the time and you couldn’t ever take your uniform off to get dry, let alone have any _fun!_ ”

James clears his throat. “I guess half your regiment wished you had time for _fun_ ,” he said, and Graves would put _Galleons_ on it that those were bedroom eyes he was aiming at Theseus.

“If I never see wet wool again it’ll be too soon,” Jacob says reflectively.

“I never saw much of that,” Newt says, running a finger around the rim of the glass in which there had formerly been whiskey. “Ironbellies get rather upset when they’re damp, so we did our best to keep them warm and dry.”

“Yes, well, you were off breaking the Statute of Secrecy in too many ways to count,” Graves says. He swirls the tiny amount of amber whiskey left in the glass with an absent twist of his wrist. “I had to clean up more things like that than I care to count.”

James shakes his head. “Every damn case. We were Senior Aurors, of course, we handled the real catastrophes…”

“I remember some of those!” Tina interjects. “All of us Juniors were stuck with petty crime, so I never did more than read reports, though.”

“Be glad you weren’t out with us,” Graves says. “What a mess…”

“I saw why they wanted the Statute, after that,” Theseus says, gazing off into space. “I know that I…well, I know I broke it into pieces, and I don’t regret it, but I saw what those weapons can do. Machine guns…”

“Or the gas,” Jacob says, and he and Theseus just pause for a long moment.

“Have you and Theseus ever talked about putting your memories back, Jacob?” Newt asks after a beat or two of silence.

“Just once or twice,” Jacob says, setting aside his glass. “May as well now, I guess.”

Credence looks up. “You can do it, right?” he asks Graves, looking up from the blocks he’s handing Young Theseus as the child very seriously stacks them up, smallest on bottom to largest on top.

“Probably. It would be an old charm, not quite as strong,” Graves says. “Who cast it?”

“I did,” Theseus says, running a hand through his hair. The careful waves break apart and he brushes the loose strands from his face. “It wouldn’t be good. Not my best work, Obliviation.”

“If it’ll upset you—” James starts, but Jacob waves him off.

“I’d like to know,” he says. He straightens his jacket and looks at Graves. “Come on.”

For a delicate job like this, Graves needs quiet. He evicts everyone from the room and sits down in front of Jacob. “Do you even remember the last time I did this?” he asks.

“No,” Jacob says. “Helps that I was knocked out, though.”

Graves smiles. “You’d better not punch me again, Jacob Kowalski.”

Jacob laughs. “Bet on it,” he says. “Go on. I’m ready.”

Slowly, carefully, Graves gets to work. It isn’t hard to identify the memories in question. Theseus is no trained Obliviator and he was young when he cast the spell; it’s slapdash work at best. At least that makes it easier to remove the spell.

When the spell is gone and Graves leans back, Jacob is staring across the room at the wall. “He saved my life,” he says slowly. “And he never told me.”

“I don’t think he would have,” Graves says. He hesitates, and continues: “Shame is powerful.”

“I know,” Jacob says. “He ain’t got anything to be ashamed of, though.”

“You might want to tell him that.”

Jacob looks at Graves. He seems lost for words. “Yeah,” he says finally.

Graves rises and holds Jacob’s shoulder for a moment, then takes his exit. When he steps out of the room everyone else is loitering with badly-concealed impatience. Before anyone can ask questions, Graves holds up a hand to stop them. “Theseus, you need to talk to him.”

With a worried look around, Theseus pushes past Graves into the living room, and Graves shuts the door behind him. A quiet conversation starts up, and Queenie puts a hand over her mouth. She turns away and James, ever solicitous, puts an arm around her shoulders and guides her away from the living room, out onto the porch.

“It must be uncomfortable to listen to,” Newt says, looking after them.

Credence watches the door with a furrow on his brow. “Should we worry?” he asks.

“No,” Tina says immediately. She pauses, and then looks at Graves. “ _Should_ we?”

Graves shakes his head. “No,” he says. “War memories are never pleasant to remember.”

“Then was this a good idea?” Credence asks.

“I think so,” Newt says. “It’s always best to examine the things the past left behind.”

 

***

 

The drive to the castle is pleasant, if a bit long. And they do choose to drive: Apparation would defeat the point of the pretense that they’re innocently traveling the Continent. Everyone is very sure they’re being watched. Still, between four former Aurors in a permanent practice of constant vigilance and Newt’s endless creativity, the house itself is warded thoroughly against surveillance.

Fog fills the quiet little town of Crans-Montana as they descend its steep street. It hangs heavy and blue-gray just at the tops of the bushy pine trees and the ridges of roofs. As they go down, Graves can see the mountains across the valley, where white clouds spill down the sides of peaks like strange waterfalls from the snowcapped peaks.

At the tops of a few hills there are the ruins of castles. In the other car, Graves is sure, Newt is lecturing about Tatzelwurms and their habits; here in this car, though, it’s quiet. Graves and Credence had elected to go with Queenie and Jacob. Queenie’s been withdrawn and melancholy all morning, and Jacob is clearly feeling quite thoughtful and not much for conversation.

They drive past green fields, bright below the great grim mountains, and small valley towns. At last they come around a corner and can see the great, steel-blue sweep of Lake Geneva, and, on its shore ahead, the shape of a castle. “That’s it, I think,” Jacob says, leaning forward over the wheel.

“My hair is gray, but not with years,” Graves says, a little to himself.

Credence looks askance. “What?”

Graves watches as the silhouette of the castle grows larger. “Byron wrote a poem—the Prisoner of Chillon. It’s a long, meandering thing. Didn’t like it much, but it seems appropriate.”

“And that was…”

“The opening line.”

Credence tilts his head. “Is the rest of the poem that tragic?”

“It’s about a man who was held prisoner in a dungeon,” Graves says dryly. “What do you think?”

They leave the cars somewhat down the road and walk up to the castle. Due to the gray day, they appear to be the only visitors. Though there’s no rain, the air feels like a rainstorm should. Summer heat is absent; instead, there’s only a vaguely clammy mist. It’s perfect for a castle like this. There should be, Graves thinks, a ghost in armor stalking the battlements.

Entering the castle, they cross a bridge over a moat. The water below is a surprisingly beautiful blue, lapping at the lichened walls of the castle. Immediately inside the gate, in the courtyard, they’re confronted with the walls of the inner buildings. Windows are scattered irregularly on the walls, and the roofs of each building are at strange heights. It all looks very much like it was built haphazardly, without particular regard for symmetry.

“Down is where the Tatzelwurms will be, if they’re here,” Newt says.

“You all go,” Credence says, looking up toward the battlements. “I’m not one for dungeons.”

Young Theseus, holding onto the leg of his uncle’s pants for balance, also elects to stay up top: by extension, Theseus himself stays. “We’ll play tag, or something,” he says cheerfully.

It’s a group of five who follows Newt down into the dungeons of the castle. They’re remarkably beautiful, not cramped at all. Great round pillars hold up the ceiling, supporting beautiful vaulted arches and carefully-placed stone. There are extremely narrow, high-set windows running the length of the roof; despite being barely big enough to fit a wand through, they do let in plenty of light.

“Now, see, if I’m right, there’ll be a burrow somewhere…” Newt’s already off, examining the room minutely. “They used to live in caves, but these days they take up residence in abandoned buildings when they can. Food’s easier to come by.”

Tina casts a few spells—“No-Maj Repelling Charms,” she explains, “our standard procedure in case of No-Majs when we’re looking for a creature”—while Queenie, on James’ arm, observes the names cut into the wall and Jacob follows Newt around the room. Graves stands by the odd little door, cut into the stone and leading down a short flight of steps to the water, and watches. The room smells of dust and old stone. It isn’t exactly the kind of place he imagined as Byron’s famous dungeon.

Suddenly there’s a shout that echoes around the room and Jacob leaps away from the wall where he was examining a hole. He goes crashing to the ground, a long, lithe creature on his chest. “Newt!”

Newt bolts across the room, nearly tackling Jacob in his haste to seize hold of the thing. Graves and the rest rush over, hovering anxiously, but they didn’t need to worry. A moment later, Newt rises up, the creature perched on his forearm. It’s still hissing and spitting, but accepting Newt’s soothing strokes to its head. It’s gray-scaled and smooth, with a head like a cat’s and two viciously clawed legs at the front of a long and serpentine body. “This,” Newt says calmly, “is a Tatzelwurm.”

“Mean,” Jacob comments, climbing up with Tina’s help and brushing himself off.

“Yes, a little,” Newt says.

Graves bends to peer at it more closely. “It smells a little strange,” he says.

“Don’t get too close. They breathe poison.” At Newt’s words, Graves practically leaps back.

James makes a strangled noise. “Shouldn’t you have mentioned that before we went looking?”

“This is how it usually goes,” Tina says with alarming cheer. “That’s half the fun.”

“Besides, this one is quite young,” Newt says. “Adults are nearly as long as I am tall. This is just a baby. It won’t stay here long; there are far too many people and it will run out of space. The babies won’t kill you—their breath will only give you a headache.”

“That’s a comfort,” James says in tones of disbelief.

Tina shrugs. “We take what we can get,” she says.

After a little more examination, and giving Newt the chance to take some measurements and perform some minor diagnostics, they let the Tatzelwurm go. “It will be perfectly all right here,” he says. “I doubt if it would cause a problem, even if it was spotted.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not an Auror anymore,” James says, shaking his head.

“I think that every day,” Tina says. “Imagine what it’s like being married to the man.”

James shudders theatrically. “You’re a better woman than I have ever been a man, Ms. Goldstein!”

They head up out of the dungeon and into the rest of the castle. It’s absolutely labyrinthine, seeming larger on the inside than it is out. The rooms have wood paneling and paint, still looking for all the world as if the real owners have only just stepped out, taking the furnishings with them. It’s a little strange, Graves thinks, to be tourists in someone’s home.

He finds Credence on the battlements of the castle, looking out over the lake. “Still brooding, Lord Byron?” he asks, coming up and standing next to Credence.

“Just thinking of the poem,” Credence says.

Graves presses their shoulders together, leaning on the stones. “Good thoughts?”

“I don’t know.” Credence gazes off at the lake. “Have any more of that poem to recite?”

Graves laughs. “Only the beginning and the end.”

Credence cocks a brow at him. “Go on, share.”

There’s a moment of silence as Graves remembers the closing lines. “My very chains and I grew friends, so much a long communion tends to make us what we are:—even I regain’d my freedom with a sigh.” He stops a moment, and then says, “I told you it was a tragic poem.”

A light breeze ruffles Credence’s hair a little. “I shouldn’t have asked,” he says, “that was extremely unhelpful.”

“Lord Byron was not a particularly helpful man in any respect,” Graves says.

“I just—I don’t want to think about what’s coming,” Credence says.

Graves takes a moment to compose himself. This isn’t something he wants to talk about, either, and on the best of days discussions of chains and dungeons make his skin crawl. “You know we’re going to have to face him again.”

“I know. We’ll have to. He won’t take it kindly if we find the child,” Credence says. He flinches a little. “Find the child…funny, that’s what he said to me. Find the child and we’ll all be free.”

Graves shakes his head. His skin is still crawling, and perhaps it’s from a little more than a poem after all. “Are you ready for it? Last time was a disaster.”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. He folds his arms. “I…maybe. Are you?”

Honesty is the best policy. “No,” Graves says. He stares down into the water.

Credence protests, gripping his elbow. “But…”

“I froze in San Francisco,” Graves says. He hadn’t considered this until standing right here, but perhaps this is why he’s been feeling so uncomfortable. “You know I still dream about him at night. Or rather, I have nightmares. If push comes to shove, I…”

The tips of Credence’s fingers catch under Graves’ chin. Credence turns Graves so they’re looking each other in the eye. There is a cold look in Credence’s eyes. “If push comes to shove,” he says, “I’ll put a Killing Curse between his eyes before he can get anywhere near you.”

There’s a long moment and then Graves exhales shakily. His hands, clenched in fists he didn’t realize he made, relax. “I trust you to do that,” he says. “If I can’t do it…”

“I will,” Credence says. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I wrote about the castle came from my own experience and the photos I took there, so inaccuracies are all mine.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to “the florida case” and “the anniversary” (the vignette about the storm) for some context.
> 
> Sorry I disappeared for so long, y'all. It’s just been finals week in college and I had no fewer than four ten-page-plus research essays due on four successive days. By ten-page-plus, I mean two were 12 pages, one was 15, and one was 17. All of them had three-page-plus bibliographies. (They’re all in and the ones graded so far got kickass grades.)
> 
> This would not have completely screwed up my posting schedule, but there’s an out-of-the-chute editing note on the next chapter that I honestly didn’t have the mental time or energy to handle. It’s a really small thing, but DAMN was it overwhelming when I was in the thick of things.

By the time that Credence and Graves come down from their introspective moment on the walls, it’s almost two in the afternoon. Young Theseus, exhausted with exploring every inch of the castle he could run to, and his equally exhausted caretakers, have elected that they go home. Still, the town of Montreux isn’t so far off, and they pay a visit for a late lunch before undertaking the drive home. The food is good, light and tasteful, and it isn’t long before they’re back on the road to Crans-Montana.

Credence and Graves go in separate cars on their way back to Crans-Montana, if only by a mutually understood agreement that they’ll both sink deeper into gloom if left alone together. Graves is pleased to go with Jacob and Queenie and Tina, while Theseus practically drags Credence to the car carrying Newt and James.

Young Theseus, as they load up, insists on carrying on a deep conversation about the snails and shells he found near the lake shore. He hasn’t got many words, and is content largely with handing shells to Graves and Tina, who sit on either side of him.

Jacob whistles as they drive, some sprightly tune that Credence doesn’t know. “What’s the song?” Tina asks after a while, looking up.  

“Oh, it’s an old No-Maj song,” Jacob says. “It’s a good one. Stay on the sunny side, always on the sunny side, stay on the sunny side of life.”

“That’s pleasant,” Graves says.

“It’s one of my favorites that he sings,” Queenie says, with a sweet smile.

Jacob laughs. “Yeah, but it would help if I remembered the real chorus. The only one I ever remember is a joke—you’ll feel no pain as we drive you insane, if you’ll stay on the sunny side of life!”

Tina laughs. “I think you should teach that to the rest of us.”

“Here: I’ll start with you,” Jacob says. “Follow along!”

By the time that they park the cars near the chalet, they all know the song just as well as Jacob does. Tina, who doesn’t love to sing, keeps on whistling it, while Jacob and Queenie sing lustily. Graves could never be called a nightingale, but he enjoys singing regardless. It doesn’t take long for James and Theseus to pick it up, too. By dinner even Newt has been coaxed to deliver the chorus at least once—helped along by Young Theseus. The boy can’t really string together all the words yet, but still manages to pick up “sunny side” and sings that all evening.

“I suppose his new favorite food is sunny-side-up eggs,” Credence says at dinner, when Tina is trying unsuccessfully to get Young Theseus to eat oatmeal again.

Young Theseus looks up immediately and, cheerfully, shouts out, “Egg!”

Theseus laughs so hard he nearly chokes, Queenie topples off her chair, and everyone else can’t seem to stop laughing either. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Graves can’t get the smile off his face.

By the time they’re eating Jacob’s lemon pie and Young Theseus has been taken off to bed, though, the general gaiety has calmed down considerably. And Tina clearly has business on her mind. “We need to decide when we’re leaving,” she says. “Grindelwald won’t wait forever, and the longer we wait, the more people we put at risk.”

“She’s damn right,” Jacob says. “I think we oughta leave tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that a bit fast, if the Graveses are supposed to be on some kind of family-assisted honeymoon?” Theseus points out.

Graves thinks this is entirely reasonable, but Credence does not. “I think it’s more important that we find the Obscurial than we try to keep under cover,” he says.

“Our chance will disappear if someone catches on to what we’re doing,” Graves argues.

Jacob cuts in then. “And in the meantime there’s a kid in trouble!”

“We can’t help the child at all if the Confederation takes exception to us,” Newt says sharply.

“Newt!” Tina says. “It’s a child!”

Theseus leans forward. “No, it’s an Obscurial—”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Credence snaps.

The shadows billow uncomfortably, but Theseus perseveres. “All I’m saying—”

“Shut up, Theseus,” Jacob warns.

“It was a slip of the tongue,” Newt says.

“Newt! Don’t _defend_ that!” Tina shouts, swinging around in her chair to glare at Newt. At that, Graves is taken completely aback. How fast did Tina change her opinions? Not that he’s objecting, it’s a nice change, but even so!

Queenie, head in her hands, says something too quietly to hear. “He’s not entirely wrong,” James says, ignoring her, “and that’s exactly why we should—”

Credence rounds on James. “We aren’t looking for the child because it’s some kind of _monster_!”

The room explodes into sound. Everyone is talking and shouting at once over each other and the noise is climbing and the shadows are going mad and Jacob looks like he might actually hit Theseus and Tina looks ready to hex her own husband and Queenie is clutching her head and sobbing—

That’s enough.

“ _Enough_!” Graves thunders.

Everyone falls silent. In the other room, Young Theseus is crying. Newt moves to rise and stops when Tina gives him an icy look. She ignores them all as she stands up and hurries out of the room. The living room door shuts, and the noise is muffled. Queenie, face streaked with tears, gets up and leaves too, using the wall for balance as she goes. No one stops her. Graves feels a deep pang of guilt: what kind of headache must she have right now?

Jacob starts to say something and Graves cuts him off. “I said _enough_ , Jacob.” He looks at Credence and gestures around at the shadows. “Put that thing away.”

Credence does as he says, hands fisted in his lap. He’s glaring. But he doesn’t voice a complaint.

Graves looks around at everyone. “We will revisit this in the morning,” he says to the table at large. “Cool off and make yourselves reasonable.”

“And if people are unreasonable?” Theseus asks, giving Graves a narrow look. “Then what, you’ll decide what happens?”

“Yes,” Graves says. “We meet here before breakfast tomorrow, eight o’clock. Good night.” And he waits for everyone else to move.

 

***

 

They file out, no one speaking, going their separate ways. Graves watches the door shut behind them and then realizes that one person never left. He turns to James with his eyebrows raised.

“That was not good,” James says.

Graves rubs his face with both hands. “No, it wasn’t,” he says. “I’ve never seen these people fighting like this, James.”

“Everyone struggles under pressure,” James says. He looks at Credence’s seat. “I’m mostly worried about _him_ , though.”

“I am too,” Graves says.

James shakes his head. “‘Volatile’ seems to be the shortest way to describe it.”

“He’s…mercurial.”

“Has he always been?”

“It’s a side effect of the Obscurus,” Graves says, “or the cause, depending on who you ask.”

James looks at Graves. “And what exactly is the Obscurus?”

Graves sighs. “You heard Newt’s lecture,” he says. “You know.”

“Yes, but I have the sneaking suspicion that Newt didn’t tell the Assembly everything,” James says. He half-smiles. “And you’re all quite paranoid, Percy. None of you tell outsiders anything you don’t have to tell.”

“Do you blame us?”

“No,” James says. “I’m only saying that I don’t think I really understand what Credence _is_.”

“He’s a man whose soul was fractured by abuse as a child,” Graves says bluntly. “His magic warped as a result and got something close to sentience. It permits him to have enormous power but it’s also giving feedback that makes him even more unstable…”

James looks at Graves, gaze perfectly steady. “He’s out of control.”

“His control is improving.”

“Then I don’t want to see how it started.”

Graves stares at his old friend. “Have a little kindness, would you?”

“I’m _being_ kind,” James says. “You can’t solve a problem from the inside and right now that’s where you are. Credence is good and kind and I like him a lot. But he isn’t under control.”

“If you’re worried about the shadows, I can tell you that isn’t an issue.”

“It isn’t the shadows,” James says curtly. “It’s that I know a man whose soul was fractured, who was tortured, and he’s ten times as stable.”

Graves rocks back a bit, surprised. “What poor bastard…” He pauses. James’ gaze is heavy and steady and he has this _look_ on his face. “My soul is fine.”

“Florida,” James says. “Our last case together. You threw a Killing Curse.”

“I was fine,” Graves says.

“You weren’t,” James says. “That’s when I hear you stopped talking to people.”

“The Directorship is a difficult position.”

“And you somehow never learned to balance it after ten years? I don’t know what happened to you, Percy, unless it’s connected to that curse. And it’s _still_ irrelevant. You stayed…you. But every time Credence gets upset I wonder if this will be the time he kills someone.”

At this point, Graves is close to hexing James outright. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s like hearing what he already thinks. He doesn’t need that. “James, what’s the point of this?”

“The point of this is you.”

Graves has no idea what to say.

“The point of this is you,” James repeats. “You’re under pressure from everyone. They’ve all put everything back on your shoulders…like being the Director again, only worse because you don’t have a secretary anymore.”

“It’s not so bad,” Graves says.

“I can see that it is,” James says. He takes Graves’ hand in both of his. “You need help, and I’m not sure why your family isn’t giving it to you.”

“They’ve all got their own troubles,” Graves says. “I won’t ask for what they can’t give.”

“So why are you letting Credence ask that of you?”

Graves doesn’t know what to say. He stares at James, thinking of how to proceed. He doesn’t know the answer to James’ question; or, worse, he does know it, and doesn’t particularly like it.

“Other than me,” Graves says, “you’re worried about the child, aren’t you?”

James looks away at last. “Yes,” he says. “And about what finding that child, or what losing that child, will do to Credence, and what that means for us.”

“James…”

“I know you love him,” James says. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “But even you have to admit that Credence is the most dangerous of us because he doesn’t want to control the Obscurus. He wants to cut loose and be the force that destroyed New York. And I’m starting to think he’s looking for an excuse.”

Graves stares out the window. Credence’s tall, dark figure is at the edge of the garden, mostly swallowed up by the evening shadows. “He’d never.”

“Would he?” James asks, very quietly.

“He saved me, in San Francisco,” Graves says. “He didn’t destroy the city. Credence controlled his power, put a leash on it.”

James drums his fingers on the table. “People keep calling the Obscurus a weapon,” he says slowly. “Percy…are you sure that Credence hasn’t been turning himself into a weapon?”

Dominoes start falling in Graves’ head.

The first time Credence showed off his control of the Obscurus, hours before they arrived in San Francisco. His perpetual insistence on avoiding the use of a wand in favor of harnessing his personal power. The times when Graves has looked at Credence and not recognized him. Credence’s vicious anger of late and his determination to pursue Grindelwald at any cost. His explosion at Hogwarts. Knives used to cut control into his arms—or maybe to push the Obscurus to greater heights of pain. His most recent cold assertion that he’ll kill Grindelwald. This fight at the table when it felt as if Credence was a hair’s breadth from attacking them all.

“Steady,” James says, holding Graves’ shoulder tight.

“What the hell do we do?” Graves asks. He feels his hands shaking.

James doesn’t let go. “That I don’t know,” he says. “It seems as if it’s largely up to you.”

A thought occurs to Graves and he looks at James, feeling as if he’s going to faint again. “We have to keep Credence from casting a Killing Curse,” he says.

Slowly James gets very pale. “If he cracks his soul again…”

Graves shakes his head. “I don’t want to think about what would happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep on the Sunny Side: the song is from the late 1890s, but stayed popular. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqIPDyK5Pmo I have no idea when the switch happened from the original lyrics to “you’ll feel no pain as we drive you insane”, but it seemed suitable.
> 
> “Feedback” is recorded from 1920.


	33. Chapter 33

They have mail the next morning when they gather around the table at eight o’clock.

No one is really speaking to each other, and Queenie has begged off the meeting in favor of taking Young Theseus for a morning walk. Graves still feels deeply shaken; James looks about the same way, though they’re both keeping it together with muscle memory of professionalism. Theseus and Tina are hard-faced and Newt is withdrawn. It feels uncomfortably like they’ve regressed about six years. Jacob sticks close to Credence’s side, and Credence looks cold and angry.

“Letter arrived by owl,” James says. He drops the envelope on the table in front of Graves.

who?” Tina asks. She hasn’t looked at Newt all morning.

“Just five minutes ago,” James says.

Theseus leans in to look at it. “It’s got the Chinese Embassy seal,” he says.

Jacob’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “What?”

Graves opens the envelope, cracking the seal with an economic flick of his wand. He pulls out the letter and reads it. It’s a little bit stunning, but when he looks up he keeps his expression calm and measured. “She wants to meet with us at the Chinese Consulate in Milan,” he says at last.

Theseus puffs up a bit, indignant. “Picquery’s out of her head if she thinks—”

Graves cuts Theseus off. “Not Picquery,” he says. “Madame Ya Zhou.”

The room gets very, very quiet.

“Is it official?” Tina asks.

“Covert,” Graves says. “No one will know we’re coming. We’re to take a late train from Geneva tomorrow afternoon and arrive at night, to be escorted by Chinese Aurors to the Consulate.”

James holds out a hand and Graves gives over the letter for him to read. “I guess we’d better go,” Jacob says in the devastating silence.

“It’s been decided for us,” Newt says, looking anywhere but at everyone else in the room. He begins backing toward the door. “So there’s no point to further discussion…”

“There is every point,” Graves  says. He leans forward and looks right at Credence, who is also rising to his feet. “Sit down.”

Credence does. His expression is still cold, a bit calculating, and deeply unsettling. At the moment, Graves doesn’t care. There are more important things to discuss than Credence's moods, things he thought about the entire previous night.

“If none of you have noticed,” Graves says, looking around the table, “this is a time-sensitive and dangerous thing we’ve undertaken. We may have Ya Zhou on our side, but she can do nothing to help us if we’re caught ignoring the resolution of the Confederation. And they will not help us if— _when_ —we cross Grindelwald.”

Everyone is staring at him in varying degrees of surprise. Clearly, they didn't see this lecture coming. Graves feels a bit like he’s in a meeting of Aurors right now, and that isn’t so far from the truth, considering the careers of half the people at the table. Hopefully, that long-time obedience to authority will work for them now.

“We. Are. On. Our. Own,” he continues. “I can’t overestimate the danger we’re all in right now. And that danger only gets worse if there’s infighting. Disagreement is fine, we can live with that. There are no right choices and we’ll have to discuss what we do going forward. But when we act, we act as one. We protect each other, without hesitation and _without question_.”

“That isn’t a problem,” Tina says. Graves sees the stubbornness in her face, the refusal to be wrong which has saved them many times. Right now, that trait could be a problem. “I trust everyone here with my life.”

Graves looks steadily back at her. “And how long will that last if we’re fighting each other?”

“Not long,” Theseus says. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, deflating a bit. “Bugger this.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” James says. “Percy. We’re not soldiers.”

“We _were_ ,” Graves says. “Queenie and Credence weren’t, but—”

Credence looks down at the table, some of his anger dissipating. “We are now,” he says softly.

“This is a war,” Graves says, “slow and secret or not. We can’t repeat last night. Ever.”

Tina sighs and folds her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Why is this so much harder than last time?” she mutters.

Jacob shrugs. “We were running away,” he says. “We knew where we were going. Wasn’t hard to pull together when the whole world wanted us locked up or dead.”

“They want the same thing now,” Graves says grimly. “And like it or not, we do know where we’re going in the end.”

Newt straightens up. “And where is that, Percival?” he asks softly.

Graves looks around the table. Now they’re all resigned. They know what he’s going to say but he has to say it anyway. “At some point, we will face Grindelwald,” he says. “Whatever happens to the Obscurial—he knows that Credence is on the move again, that he’s on the Continent, that he’s vulnerable. Right now, he has us scuttling like rats in a gutter. Meanwhile the Confederation demands that Credence and this other Obscurial conceal their true natures. We are forced to cower in fear lest we risk discovery. None of us are safe.”

There’s a long pause. Tina and Newt are white-faced, Graves notices, suddenly holding hands as if to moor themselves in reality. Jacob’s eyes are wide, almost…frightened. What’s happening here?

“What do you want us to do with that, Percy?” James asks after a moment.

He thought long and hard about this last night. It wasn’t an easy conclusion to reach, but after hours of thinking and pacing Graves had finally decided that in some way perhaps Credence had the right idea. “I want us to stand and fight,” Graves says. “I refuse to bow down any longer.”

Credence looks up at him with a brilliant smile. He looks beyond overjoyed, visibly thrilled at the thought of violence, and Graves’ heart sinks. Perhaps he didn’t think enough about Credence when he started talking.

But it’s too late now.

“Goddammit,” Jacob says suddenly, violently. He wipes his brow. “I get it now.”

There are tears in Tina’s eyes. She scrubs at her face with her free hand, but more come, rolling down her cheeks.

“Percival…” Newt whispers. He’s still so pale.

“What?” Theseus asks, looking around at them all. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jacob says, looking at Newt and Tina. “It can wait.”

James smiles weakly. “You’re scaring me a little,” he says, to the table at large.

“It can wait,” Jacob repeats flatly. “We don’t have time. What next?”

“Geneva,” Graves says. “Leave tomorrow, spend the day there. Take a late train to Milan, meet the Chairwoman. Then we head for Venice.”

Theseus nods, all business again. “Right. We should plan, even if we don’t find the Obscurial, that we won’t be coming back here. If the child isn’t in Venice, then we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“We can decide that when we get there,” Newt says. “There will be leads. Things we can track. I know I have a contact there…”

“So do I,” James says. He gets to his feet and strides for the door. “That’s settled, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

At the same moment, Tina, still with tears running down her face and dripping off her chin, says, “I need—Newt, _please_ —”

Newt practically picks her up. “Yes,” he says, arm around her waist, helping her out of the room.

“I’ll go tell Queenie,” Jacob says, ducking out.

Theseus looks at Graves and Credence. “I see now you were serious about people getting ripped open,” he says somberly. “At least let’s make sure it’s for a good cause.”

The moment the door shuts behind Theseus, Graves drops his head into his hands. He feels sick, so sick that even when Credence comes to embrace him nothing improves. “Still here?” Credence asks softly, holding him tight.

“Still here,” Graves replies, though he wishes he wasn’t here at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder of some important things in this chapter may be found at the following youtube link. (About two minutes long.)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tD-hzFTifww


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some explanation for the last one...
> 
> I hope everyone who celebrated had a merry Christmas, and that those who didn't enjoyed a wonderful day!

By noon, a sort of equilibrium has returned. Theseus is still a bit hard-faced and Tina gets teary at the drop of a hat, but Graves is a little hopeful that things will be all right. Lunch is a simple affair of sandwiches, produced by Queenie. She’s doing her best to carry the load of bringing everyone back together, chatting with everyone and smiling as though nothing happened at all. And the way she hugs them all says, of course, that she knows what they’re thinking, and the words to say best to help.

“I need a lot of hands in the suitcase today,” Newt announces as they finish eating. “If you all can—please, things are so out of hand.”

“Yeah, sure!” Jacob says.

“Of course,” Graves says.

James gives Newt a funny look. “You know,” he says, “I’ve seen people going in and out, but I haven’t been in it yet.”

“What?” Credence asks, dropping the end of his sandwich in surprise.

“That can’t be allowed,” Theseus declares. He stands decisively. “Newt, lead on, even if it means I have to haul a wheelbarrow of Erumpet dung again.”

For the first time today, everyone is smiling, and Graves feels the threatening shadows—real and imagined—retreat from them. Good riddance to that.

They head down into the suitcase, everyone making James go last. He protests, laughing. “I want to see your face, sugar, and I can’t do that if I’m behind you,” Queenie says. Graves waits on the steps, outside the workshop, next to Tina. James steps out of the door and stops cold in his tracks, staring with his mouth hanging open.

Graves follows his gaze as he looks it all over. He knows what it’s like to see this place for the first time, and it’s unfailingly magical even now. This is wizardry among wizards, a miracle among people used to the miraculous.

“Welcome to the suitcase,” Jacob says, after a moment or two has passed, smiling.

“Merlin’s beard,” James says, still gazing around. “I had no idea.”

“No one does,” Newt says, glancing around at the vast expanse of the case with a small, proud smile. “Now—come along, everyone. There are chores to be done!”

He assigns them with efficiency as everyone takes off jackets and rolls up sleeves. Graves’ is to look after the Bowtruckles—“Pickett’s missed you badly,” Newt says, “and besides, you’ll want to meet his sprouts, you’re a Bowtruckle godfather now too”—and sends Theseus off to feed the Mongolian Death Worm, since that’s a dangerous job Theseus actually enjoys.

Jacob goes to the Mooncalves, pail of feed cheerfully in his hand; Queenie is sent off to see about the Ghost Deer in the woodland. Young Theseus makes straight for the Occamy nest, crowing “Occamy! Occamy! Occamy!” at the top of his small voice. Tina and Newt let him go—“if he gets bitten again, it’s his own fault, he knows better after the first three times,” Tina says—and Tina puts on a mask and gloves to go trim the _Helianthus aphroditus_ patch.

James is assigned to reinforce the Silencing Charm on the Fwooper, and then to simply go where his fancy takes him; Credence gets a wheelbarrow full of hay and sent to the Thestral paddock where Newt is keeping a pair of injured Thestrals that got lost in a storm. And Newt himself takes the job of collecting the large bucket of raw meat to feed the Nundu.

“How does your son know how to say the word ‘Occamy’ better than most adults but can’t manage the word ‘train’?” Graves hears Credence ask Tina, as he’s shoving the wheelbarrow away.

Muffled by the mask, Tina replies, “All he ever hears are creature names. We try, but ‘train’ is just not something Newt and I say.”

It’s not long at the Bowtruckle tree before Pickett is in his usual place on Graves’ shoulder. Ten tiny Bowtruckles have decided to use his suspenders as a gymnasium, which Graves doesn’t mind. In the safe center of the case, just behind him, Young Theseus chases a clearly-amused Dougal in some combination of tag and hide-and-go-seek. Queenie, holding Tina at arm’s length, is siphoning off all the loose pollen lest there be an accident. James, hands in his pockets, stands by the rock, looking up into the sky at the Wind Snakes lazily circling in the ever-present storm. It appears that the Niffler absconded with Theseus’ cufflinks and tie pin, and now he and Jacob are sprinting around after it in hot pursuit. Credence is off with the Thestrals, stroking their backs, and the sight makes Graves smile.

Newt appears beside Graves. “I see Pickett’s children like you just as much as Pickett does.”

“I have missed this so much,” Graves says.

“So have I,” Newt says. “I remember…when you all first came here, how it felt to have people with me for the first time. It felt like home.”

Graves looks around again, taking it all in. “It still feels like coming home.”

 

***

 

Graves pulls Tina aside that night, once most of the house is off to their own evening devices. “I need you to explain what happened this morning,” he says, stopping her in the empty kitchen.

“This morning?”

“What did I say that scared you so badly?”

Tina bites her lip. “I don’t want to tell you.”

“I’d like to know.”

She leans her hip against the counter and folds her arm. “In the subway,” Tina says slowly, “when we all found out you’d been replaced. He made this…speech to us, right before he attacked the Aurors and Newt and I took him down.”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of Graves’ stomach. “And…what did he say?”

“Almost word for word what you said,” Tina says. “I just remember him saying in your voice, ‘I refuse to bow down any longer.’”

“Oh,” Graves says, for lack of anything better.

“Then there you are this morning, saying the same thing…”

Graves can’t resist a wry smile. “No wonder no one noticed I’d been replaced, if he and I are so similar that we’re saying things like that.”

Tina shakes her head, starts to speak, stops, and then wraps her arms tightly around Graves with her chin hooked over his shoulder. He embraces her too. It’s a painful thing, to realize this, but all he can really do is hold Tina tightly.

“We talked about whether or not we should tell you,” she says at last, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “If you really needed to know.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Graves says. It ought to be painful. But by comparison to everything else, this barely registers. He can’t say what he’s really thinking to Tina, so…he lies. “I know we’re not the same man, Tina. I’ve always known that. This is almost funny.”

She smiles a little. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes he does have the right idea,” Graves says. “I really don’t like the idea of bowing to anyone, least of all the murderous bastard who had the audacity to steal my face.”

It’s not a particularly funny statement, but it turns Tina’s smile into a small giggle, and Graves considers that a victory. He kisses her cheek before nudging her in the direction of her bed. The conversation should be over, but Tina pauses in the doorway.

“Graves?”

“Tina?”

She bites her lip again. “Do you remember the first time we really talked to each other?”

Graves thinks on it. “I’m not sure I do,” he says.

“That ring of hexers-for-hire,” Tina says. “Before I was promoted to Senior Auror. I took a dive and skinned my knees and palms?”

“Right,” Graves says. An oddly fond memory, that. He’d put it away as just another day, but clearly for Tina it had been exceptional. “Why do you mention it?”

“You got that horrible frostbite,” she says. Graves winces: yes, that’s pretty unforgettable. “And you let me patch you up.”

“As far as I remember, you were pretty persistent,” Graves says.

Tina smiles fondly. “I had to be, you’d have tried to walk it off,” she says. “I only thought it was funny, because I almost never saw you _talk_ to people. You were always this kind of heroic figure, and then there you were letting little me heal you up.”

“I’ve never claimed to be invulnerable,” Graves says.

“I know,” Tina says. “But I just laugh now because I remember wondering if someday I might be able to be your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See "the department" for the incident Tina is talking about.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at “the no-maj” for the last time Jacob and Ya chatted.

They leave early for Geneva the next morning. By “early”, this means at three o’clock, before the sun’s even up. It’s a fair few hours’ drive. Newt drives Graves, Credence, Tina, and Young Theseus; the others are in the other car. Credence, Tina, and Young Theseus all sleep in the back seat, while Graves and Newt idly discuss what they know of Muggle politics. The quiet conversation doesn’t last long, and Graves is left alone with his thoughts as they drive.

It’s hard to believe that Credence and Graves came to England a month and a half ago. They had arrived and gone to Hogwarts after just over a week in England, and then gone on to settle in Godric’s Hollow. A month later, everything had gone wrong, and now here they are. Events are really moving along. Graves can’t quite believe it.

Geneva is a pleasant city, more than welcoming. They leave their cars in an alley, abandoned as entirely useless to them now. The streets are bustling, awash in a variety of languages. French, German, and English are all in evidence in a sort of Babel—and Graves also hears other languages, unexpected ones, from other places around the globe.

“There’s a Muggle conference happening here,” Theseus says diffidently. “They’re talking about getting rid of armies and things.”

“Seems like a pipe dream,” James says wistfully.

Queenie watches the people passing. “As long as there are men like Grindelwald, seems we’re going to need people to fight.”

Despite the vaguely uncomfortable feeling, Geneva remains pleasant. They have all day to leisurely take it in, though they don’t stay long on No-Maj streets. There’s a thriving wizarding community in town, and that’s where they all feel most comfortable.

Particularly pleasant is the tourist street. There’s a confectioner there, selling chocolate; it isn’t ordinary chocolate, though. There are sweets designed to make someone laugh, or to make bubbles full of rainbows float from their mouths when they speak, or to turn the tongue an alarming shade of blue. Young Theseus is entranced by chocolate animals that march around in a miniature circus ring, and Credence shares his fascination. Jacob admires the pastries with a professional air, and they all come away with candied orange slices and caramels and variety of soft chocolate truffles.

By the time that evening falls and they get on their train south to Milan—surrounded by No-Majs—though, the mood has darkened again. It will be night, when they arrive; the whole group is quiet in the compartment. It rattles on in the darkness, the only indication that they’re moving forward the sound of the wheels under their feet and the occasional whistle of the train.

“We won’t even see the city,” Theseus says after a while. “Shame, that.”

“No,” Queenie says. She’s leaning against Jacob, head on his chest. “That’s okay, I think.”

“I’d rather not,” Credence says, looking out the window to where a distant town’s lights slide away. “Milan isn’t the city in danger.”

Newt, rocking a sleepy Young Theseus on his lap, sighs. “Let’s not talk about that,” he says.

“Right,” Tina says firmly. “Has anyone got a book?”

Queenie claps her hands lightly. “Oh, Tina, lovely idea!”

“What? Why?” Theseus asks, looking askance.

“Because it’s a tradition that when we’re on trains, Jacob reads to us,” Tina says.

Graves gets up. “Hang on,” he says, opening the suitcase and beginning his descent, “I know I brought something.”

“Of course he did,” Graves hears James say from overhead. Graves smiles: there has never been a time where he hasn’t traveled with a book. It used to be a joke between them, that Graves would bring more books than clothes when they traveled together.

It only takes a minute to locate the small, dun-colored book. He emerges from the suitcase and hands it to Jacob. “Here,” he says. “I ended up with a copy when I was at Flourish and Blotts right before we left. Never read it, so no idea if it’s good.”

Jacob examines the cover. “Looks like a children’s book,” he says. “‘Little House in the Big Woods’. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Yeah, kid’s story.”

“That sounds like exactly what we need,” Tina says.

Theseus reclines against the back of the seat. “Go on, read away.”

Queenie shifts over and exchanges Jacob’s shoulder for Percival’s as Jacob opens the book and scans the opening lines. “Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs. The great, dark trees of the Big Woods stood all around the house, and beyond them were other trees and beyond them were more trees. As far as a man could go to the north in a day, or a week, or a whole month, there was nothing but woods…”

The train rattles on. Jacob’s voice, clear and changing for each character’s lines, fills the car; no one else seems to be breathing. Young Theseus has stopped squirming, and listens quietly on his mum’s lap while Tina rests her head on Newt’s shoulder. Queenie leans on Percival, and Credence is on his other side. It should surprise Graves when he looks across the compartment and sees that Theseus, next to Newt, has his arm around James’ shoulders—but he really isn’t surprised at all. Hard times bring people together in new ways.

For all the time they’re on the train, the story winds on. Life in the little house sounds like paradise, when told like this. Wolves howling at the door and the bear in the back garden, Pa with his fiddle and Ma at her sewing, little girls with rag and corncob dolls, and a cat, purring by the fire. It’s like a warm and comforting dream. Graves is glad to dream it for now on this train, where much more frightening things than wolves are howling at the door.

 

***

 

The Chinese Aurors are waiting at the station when the train arrives. The moment that they disembark, they’re surrounded, Disillusionment Charms thrown over them to hide them from prying Muggle eyes, and they’re escorted out to waiting cars—magically expanded—which will take them to the Chinese Consulate. The Aurors all look tense and tight around the eyes, watching their surroundings intently. They are also, obviously, watching Credence, but Credence never blinks.

No one speaks on the drive. What is there to say? They content themselves with watching the city, too. The streets are quiet, this late at night; Graves rather wishes he’d done what Queenie did, and taken a nap on the train.

The Chinese Consulate is a modest building. No one has any major embassies here, but the great powers do keep some Aurors in major cities. MACUSA is especially notorious for sending people to semi-permanent stations abroad: James had been a Consul-General for the American Consulate in Veyshnoria, a prestigious assignment. This consulate in Milan wouldn’t hold a match to the embassy in Rome, but inside it’s still formally appointed and government-pleasing to the eye.

“This way,” a secretary says as they enter the building. Many of the lights are off, and almost no one is there but the secretary and the Aurors who escorted them. The Auror in charge begins to sharply direct her subordinates and they disperse through the building to bring up magical wards and guards. The paranoia on display is spine-chilling.

In a conference room deep in the building, they step through the door and are immediately confronted with perhaps the two most powerful women in the world. Chairwoman Ya Zhou, in a subdued version of her typical elaborate dress, a dark blue that fades into the night, with her hair down and flowing around her shoulders. Seraphina Picquery, dressed dark and severe as always, with rings on her left hand and a border of red Chinese silk on the front close of her robes.

“Chairwoman,” Graves says, bowing low.

“Mr. Graves,” Ya Zhou says, surveying them all as the door shuts and the lock clicks. “I see you’ve brought your whole little army.”

“We wouldn’t have stayed behind,” Jacob says firmly. He offers his hand and she shakes it with a smile. “Good to see you again, ma’am.”

Picquery is clearly sizing them all up. “We don’t have all night,” she says. “Let’s get to business.”

They sit around the table. Graves and James are face to face with the two women, who themselves sit literally shoulder to shoulder; Credence is on Graves’ left hand, and Tina is on James’ right. The circle progresses from there. Ya Zhou looks tense. If the way everyone else looks at her is any indication, this is not a normal thing for her to be.

“The situation in the Assembly has moved from bad to worse,” the Chairwoman says after a moment for all of them to get settled. “All action except the special task force has been stalled. The entire arsenal of the Confederation is aimed at finding the Obscurial.”

“That isn’t the only threat,” Newt says.

Picquery folds her arms. “We’re aware,” she says. “The problem is convincing the rest of the Confederation. The Obscurial has become a very convenient scapegoat for everyone who doesn’t want to chase down Grindelwald.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m confused still as to why someone wouldn’t want to pursue Grindelwald,” Theseus says, leaning forward.

“Plenty of reasons,” Picquery says. “People who are afraid it would blow holes in the Statute of Secrecy. People who haven’t been directly affected yet and don’t care. People who think we should pursue a policy of appeasement. People who want it but are using their consent as a bargaining chip for other policies. And of course…”

Ya Zhou puts her hand over Picquery’s. “There will be _no_ accusations,” she says. They share a resigned look, and then she continues: “The issue is this: the Confederation has stalled. It will take time for us to regain lost momentum. We need to know your plan so that we can maneuver accordingly.”

“What do you mean?” Credence asks, at the same time that Queenie says, “Oh, thank you!”

“Miss Goldstein?” Picquery asks, eyebrows raised.

“Mrs. Kowalski,” Queenie says coolly. She looks back at Ya Zhou and smiles again, still a little overly polite. She must be really on edge. “I hope you’re lucky with redirecting them.”

“With…redirecting…” Credence seems lost for words.

James laughs. “This is impossible,” he says.

Graves feels like his smile is sharp enough to cut through someone. “We’re headed for Venice now, in case the Obscurial passed through the black market there,” he says.

“And from there?” Picquery asks.

“We’re hoping the child will be there,” Tina says. “And we’ll decide what to do next if we can’t find them once we’re there.”

“We’ll need regular communication,” Picquery says. “I have recommendations, should the Obscurial not be where you expect.”

With a wave of his wand, James sends a map rolling out from his wand. It flickers into a flat map of the world, white lines studded with white dots to represent the major cities. “Here—”

Suddenly they’re all standing, looking at the map, pointing and talking. Graves barely notices when Credence backs away from the table to stand near the wall, out of the way, as does Ya Zhou. “We have to be clear on his strategies so far,” Graves says. He leans over the map, tapping the white dots and turning them a bright red. “He doesn’t strike the same place twice, ever. Example: he took me in the attack on Brussels and hasn’t been back since.”

“So we can rule out any city where he’s already been,” Jacob says.

“Unless he’s changing tactics because he’s become too predictable,” Tina says reasonably.

Picquery shakes her head. “No, I can safely assure you that his plans won’t change. We have a spy in his ranks—I won’t say who—but I can guarantee that his movements will not change. He’s inciting fear among the ranks of the Confederation that they might be next, unexpectedly. Our spy doesn’t have advance warning of where he will strike next, but we do know that no city will be hit twice.”

“I imagine that this makes everyone extremely paranoid,” Theseus says dryly.

“Very much,” Picquery says.

“It does tell us places that they might have sent the child,” Tina points out. “Who would look for a weapon in a city that’s already been attacked?”

“Should we redirect to Rome, then?” James asks.

“No,” Graves says. “I still think they wouldn’t risk moving when all of Europe is so deeply under surveillance.”

Newt rests the tip of his wand on Venice. “Quaervia,” he mutters, and thin lines of blue snake out from his wand. One connects straight to Rome. “These are the routes of creature smugglers I’ve seen, the fastest ways to move things they don’t want seen.”

“Out of curiosity, why don’t you bring this to the authorities?” Theseus asks.

“We catch more smugglers if we don’t shut down the routes,” Newt says dismissively. “And by ‘we’ I mean magizoologists who—”

“Let’s focus,” Graves says.

“So what do we do when we have to actually face down Grindelwald?” Jacob asks, cutting through the conversation suddenly. “If the Obscurial is with him, we’ll have to go face to face. You want the eight of us to do it alone?”

Picquery smiles. “No,” she says. “I’ll be with you, if that happens. And more to the point, I’ve spent the last three years since leaving office bringing together…allies.”

“Allies?” Jacob asks.

“Old colleagues,” she says. “Aurors I trust, people who have an interest in seeing Grindelwald’s fall. If Mr. Scamander and Mr. McGuinness hadn’t jumped in with you, I would have found them anyway and brought them into the cause. We will need allies, when we challenge Grindelwald, and I’ve done you the legwork of finding them.”

“There’s more you can do,” Theseus says, looking at her keenly. “Contact Leta Lestrange. I know she’s been working on—projects—in England, among the pure-blooded families. Finding people who are willing to fight the good fight.”

Newt looks up from the map. “Leta?”

Theseus looks back steadily. “I’ll explain to you later why she didn’t contact you.” Tina slips an arm around Newt’s waist and he leans into her slightly, staring at the map again. Graves winces a little: the story of what happened between Newt and Leta is unclear, but he knows that the heartbreak has been a lasting one.

“That’s good,” Picquery says. “Extra forces on our side—forces who already disdain Grindelwald and have the resources of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—that’s really good.”

“Tell her to send me a letter via Gringotts if she can, so I’ll know what’s happening,” Theseus says.

Picquery raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what branch?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Theseus says. “They have ways for their employees to get letters wherever they need to go. The goblins are extremely clever that way.”

“So we have extra reinforcements, if Lestrange pulls through,” Graves says.

Jacob nods slowly. “You think we’ll have a chance?”

“I think we almost have a guarantee,” Seraphina says. She looks at her compatriot and, unobtrusively, takes her hand. “Ya will hold back the Confederation and build us allies so that we have a case when all is said and done. I’ll pull together people who will fight with us. You find the Obscurial. I won’t say we can’t fail, but…”

“We’re closer to success now than we’ve ever been,” Graves says.

There’s something suddenly burning in his chest. It doesn’t feel—not good, not exactly, he knows what that’s like. But it’s a perfect feeling, a powerful feeling. Feels like hope. Pandora’s box might be open, but that’s all right, isn’t it? Hope still remains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geneva Naval Conference of 1932: a disarmament conference…poignantly relevant to our times. 
> 
> H. Arthur Steiner, “The Geneva Disarmament Conference of 1932”: “Finally, it may be remarked that huge armaments are not in themselves the evils to be feared; armaments are merely symptoms of the poor health of the international body politic. Until substantial progress in the solution of current international problems has been made, the aspirations of disarmament advocates will not be realized. Responsibility for the failure of disarmament at this stage will naturally be placed upon the delegates to the Geneva Conference; this responsibility should be charged to the weakening of international fiber that has come from the resurgence of nationalism. So long as there remains the probability of armed conflict—Manchuria, Jehol, Leticia, Hitler, and Polish Corridor affording evidence—nations will naturally regard as suicidal any diminution of their armed forces. The current distrust of national ambitions is unpleasantly reminiscent of the armed peace of 1914.”
> 
> However, a hopeful note: “The stage may be dark and the curtain may be down, but it is only Act One that is finished.”
> 
> Re: _Little House in the Big Woods_ —I can’t find an exact publication date for this. 1932 is the year, but no month/date anywhere that I can track down. We are going to assume it was available, because this is the moment when an information gap came and threw me under the bus. >.< The text used is from the original 1932 edition.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Venice is a city on the sea. The approach by boat is spectacular, over the rippling turquoise water, sun flickering and glittering over the surface. The buildings, red and gold and white, stand as if rising directly from the waters. In the sun, the city seems like magic. Graves leans over the side of the boat that carries them past bridges, houses, domed cathedrals and columned palaces, watching the city. The taste and smell of salt on the air, the cries of the gulls, the splashing of water at the hull of the boat—it’s a painting come to life.

They put in alongside a great stone-paved boulevard, bustling with people. James pays the boatman handsomely, thanking him in fluent Italian. “Is there any language he doesn’t know?” Graves hears Tina ask Theseus.

“No, I’m fairly sure he’s the greatest polyglot the world’s ever seen,” Theseus says.

James turns back to them all after a moment, looking bright and happy. “We’re staying at the Hotel Metropole,” he says. “Shall we?”

They shall.

On their way to the hotel, James leads the way, with Theseus by his side—the two of them keep giving each other really _interesting_ looks. Following them is a dapper group indeed. Graves has dispensed with his usual black for dark gray in concession to the sunny day; Credence wears a white suit, courtesy of a few charms from Queenie and James. Newt—still in his customary brilliant blue coat—has got the case in his hand, and Tina, in a slightly out-of-style green day dress, is pulling Young Theseus along behind her in the little red wagon.

Queenie and Jacob are arm in arm, Queenie in a stylish pink dress with puff sleeves and a flower on her collar and Jacob in a smart brown check suit. James is handsomely dressed in a perfectly-tailored dove-gray suit with a nice gray fedora to match; Theseus is equally well-dressed, but in a tan chalk-stripe suit with a straw boater hat. All together, they look no less impressive and smart than any other group of tourists to the city. There’s nothing exceptional about them except for their good looks. And the wands in some of their pockets.

Graves is glad they look good. Venice seems to call for it. The streets are close, the buildings hugging the streets, verdant flower boxes hanging off of every window overhead. Wrought-iron balconies project overhead, and the drain spouts on many buildings are carved in fantastical shapes. The people press close, unheeding of elbow room, and yet somehow it doesn’t feel threatening. They’re here for business and living. And these mundane things become magical because they are standing in a street in a city that floats on top of the sea.

Every other street they cross is a canal, with an iron-railed bridge sweeping over it. Stairs from many doors go right down to the water, and sometimes into it. On the chalky blue water sail gondolas carrying passengers just as taxis do in New York. They are beautiful crafts, elegantly carved, bearing their passengers softly and silently on pleasant journeys through the magical city.

On one bridge, Credence pauses to watch a particular gondola pass: a young couple, a handsome woman and a visibly-besotted man, hold hands in the boat as they go by, gazing at each other. Graves watches, too, and when Credence glances at him he smiles. “I think there will be time for that,” he says, fingers just brushing the back of Credence’s hand. “And if there isn’t—we’ll make time.”

A quick glance up and down the street says that they’ve been left slightly behind. No one else is about, so Credence shouldn’t be too embarrassed. Graves leans in and lightly kisses his ridiculous romantic of a husband on the lips, and delights in the smile he receives when he pulls away.

The Hotel Metropole is a beautiful four-story building, white, with red flowers in its window boxes and a yellow sign over the double door. They have four rooms, by a miracle adjacent to each other; Graves is fairly sure that Newt and Theseus put their heads together to perform some kind of sorcery to claim rooms that really shouldn’t have been theirs. It’s the usual Scamander legerdemain, but Graves knows better than to object.

The room is sumptuously furnished. The walls are papered in fantastically patterned satin, the curtains are of heavy brocade, the furniture is beautifully carved. It feels like they’ve fallen into the palace of some medieval Doge. Graves is increasingly convinced that this is all entirely a dream, that he’ll wake up at any moment with only a confused panoply of memories to remind him of all that’s happened.

On the dresser, they set down their suitcases—quietly removed from Newt’s—and doff their jackets. Credence falls backward onto the bed, toeing out of his shoes and sprawling out. “We’re here,” he says. He pulls his tie loose and throws it carelessly aside.

Graves ought to have sat down beside him, but decides otherwise. He removes his tie carefully and then drops down on top of Credence. The soft shout of surprise is quickly silenced by a long, deep kiss. Credence absolutely melts, closing his eyes as Graves’ hands find the sides of his face. When Graves breaks the kiss, he doesn’t speak, only stays there, breathing softly, utterly relaxed.

They don’t have time for anything, really. James’ contact has already agreed to meet with them this evening for dinner at a restaurant on the Piazza San Marco, and Newt has told them that his will be here tomorrow and will meet them at a location on the other side of Venice. There will have to be time, later, for affectionate moments. For now, Credence and Graves pull themselves together and head back downstairs to meet everyone else on the plaza outside the Hotel.

“Took your time,” Jacob says, grinning at them.

“We did,” Credence says, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “And we enjoyed every second of it.”

James, who looks a bit suspiciously ruffled, smiles. “I’m glad,” he says, brushing his shoulder lightly against Graves’.

“Well, it’s about three now,” Queenie says, “so we have a while before dinner. We should see the sights of the city!”

“There is plenty to see,” Newt says, “though mind I’ve only been here once and that was quite a long time ago, so don’t expect much out of me as a tour guide.”

Queenie links arms with him. “Who needs a tour guide?” she says, winking at the rest of the group. “We do just fine without them!”

Graves takes Young Theseus from Tina, and Tina in her turn takes Credence’s offered elbow. It’s a merry party they all make, strolling the streets of Venice. Graves is awed again by the way that, when they aren’t near a canal, it’s easy to forget that they’re essentially floating upon the ocean. No-Majs truly have a way of doing their own kind of magic.

Young Theseus is fascinated by the canals. When they accidentally turn down an alley whose end is a flight of steps leading down into the water, Graves barely catches the child before he bolts down the stairs into the water. Then they have to stay there for ten minutes while Young Theseus splashes his feet and pokes at the lichen on the bricks near the water. 

“You know, merfolk swim under the city,” Newt says as they cross a narrow canal together. “They find it a shady spot. I only met them once, last time I was here, but I know they’re remarkable beings.”

“I can believe that,” James says, glancing down into the water. Graves follows his gaze. He’s sure that it’s only his imagination which causes a swift shadow to dart away under a building.

There are gardens, sometimes, whole verdant green gardens with trees and hedges. Those make everyone stare, even—or perhaps especially—the wizards. Theseus remarks in astonishment again on the ingenuity of Muggles to do all this without magic, astonishment with which Graves wholeheartedly agrees.

And just when Graves is absolutely sure that the city holds no more wonders, they emerge from the houses onto St. Mark’s Square. There are the columns with the statues of St. Theodore and the Lion of Venice, and the great tower of the Campanile, with its bells and the golden statue of the Archangel Gabriel at its top. There is the Doge’s Palace, perfectly white marble and pale red brick, statues of the winged Lion of Venice over its doors. Beside it stands the great domed edifice of St. Mark’s Basilica, arches inlaid with gold and painted with the images of saints. The clock tower is there, standing in wait to tell the time. The square sprawls out, surrounded on all sides by the arcades of the Library, where cafes and vendors now wait. Pigeons flutter and scatter across the brick paving of the square, where people walk and talk together.

“Merlin,” Graves murmurs. “This shouldn’t shock me. I’ve seen Times Square at night.”

“So have I,” Queenie says, looking up at the Campanile, gaze distant. “But this is different.”

Credence stares at the Basilica, the saints looking away in stern holiness. Graves wonders if he’ll speak, but he doesn’t. There aren’t really words to describe this. The sun is setting over St. Mark’s Square, and Graves might stand here forever if he could.

“My friend will be waiting,” James says at last.

They begin to cross the square, but aren’t halfway across when the bells begin to toll. Life seems to stop in that moment, listening to the bells counting the time. Graves shivers at the sound. It’s beautiful, and adds only to the wonder of the sights. It’s an older, stranger magic than any Graves has ever really understood.

No one can quite seem to speak as they finish crossing the square. But then they leave the square, cross a street, enter the restaurant, and all noise bursts back into the world. Light and color and people chatting in Italian; a giddy whirl. Graves can’ help but smile.  

At the table they’re shown to, James introduces them all to his friend, Bianca Morosini. She’s a beautiful woman, well dressed and stylish, with an Auror’s way of looking around the room and sizing them all up with her large and luminous eyes. She is exactly the kind of woman who James would know and like, Graves thinks. Reminds him of some of their old colleagues.

“Bianca, these are my friends and traveling companions,” James says. “Percival and Credence Graves, Newt and Tina Goldstein-Scamander, Jacob and Queenie Kowalski, and last but certainly not least, Theseus Scamander.”

She greets them all with a handshake and a brilliant smile, coos over Young Theseus, and presses them to sit down. James sits beside her and, while they order dinner, chats with her in Italian. The food is incredible: Graves is fairly sure that he won’t be wanting to go back to English or American food any time soon. Small fried crabs—seasonal, Bianca tells them, they’re lucky they came when they did—risotto with fish, white polenta, and other dishes are just absolutely delightful.

of course, and it’s at this point that Bianca casts a subtle Muggle-Repelling Charm, to keep them from being noticed as they sit and talk. “You’re looking for Grindelwald’s people,” she says.

“Yes,” Graves says. He leans forward slightly, studying her. “We suspect he’s brought a weapon into this city.”

“Finding that weapon is our highest priority,” Theseus adds.

“You know,” Bianca says casually, running one finger around the rim of an empty wine glass and looking over them all, “I spoke yesterday with an investigator from the International Confederation of Wizards on this very same subject.”

Tina’s hackles are instantly up, and she opens her mouth as if to speak, but Graves raises a hand. “And what did you discuss?”

Bianca shrugs. “I told him exactly what I’ll tell you,” she says. “I don’t care who finds that weapon, only that it is found, and found quickly. I refuse to let this city become the next Rome.”

“And you’ll tell the Confederation about us, afterwards?” Newt asks, looking sideways at her.

She shakes her head, glancing out the window. “There are much more important things than your activity happening in Italy right now, and those are the things I’m worried about. I don’t care about you except that James is my friend, and I want to help him.”

“Fair enough,” Jacob says.

Graves glances at Queenie. She nods, slight and slow, and Graves feels a surge of relief. So Bianca’s telling the truth, whatever else is happening here. “Then what did you tell them?”

“I told them that there are more supporters in this city than there should be,” Bianca says. Her lips press together. “And if Grindelwald’s weapon hasn’t left the country, it’s here. There was an incident at the Rialto Bridge two days ago. Thirty-four people just began to float, levitating right off the ground. No cause was determined, and the only indication was that there was a child in the middle of the effect. The Auror team sent to investigate and clean up couldn’t find her, and no witnesses could identify her.”

“How old was she?” Tina asks.

“Eleven or twelve,” Bianca says. “About the right age for accidental magic. But there’s no girl matching the description or age among the magical community of Venice. The Auror team pulled memories from witnesses to write the description—it’s been published to all wizarding families, so that if she’s found she can be brought in.”

“What did she look like?” Credence asks.

Bianca pauses and pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket. “A little under five feet but more than four and a half,” she reads off. “White, with blonde hair worn in a braid. Round face and blue eyes. None of the witnesses saw where she went once people began levitating; there was too much distraction.”

There’s a faint picture in Graves’ head now, a faint image of this Obscurial. Where did Grindelwald find her, and what did he do to her? She’s innocent. Levitating people—that’s simple underage magic, something any child could do. It’s not a threat at all, except that she’s a girl with the power to level a city.

“Is she the weapon?” Bianca demands. “The Aurors won’t tell us that, but it’s the only incident that remotely sounds like what you’re looking for. The Confederation agent nearly fainted when I described it.” She crumples the paper and drops it on the table.

“It’s very likely that she is,” Newt says.

James tilts his head a bit. “You know about New York?”

“Only about Grindelwald being there and some kind of disaster, all kinds of hushed up,” Bianca says dryly. “The Americans have a quick hand with censorship.”

“So does everybody else,” Theseus says. “I promise you, half of what happened in Rome never made the papers.”

Bianca sighs. “I know,” she says. “You know more than I do, I’m sure. I wish I knew more. But…”

“It’s probably better just now if you’re kept in the dark,” Graves says. “The less you know about this, the safer you are.”

“I believe that,” Bianca says. “So. You have what you came for. There’s a child somewhere in this city and she’s probably Grindelwald’s weapon. Tread carefully. If you’re looking for her, they probably already know you’re here, or will soon enough.”

“That’s fine,” Credence says. His voice is low, sharp, and Graves looks at him and nearly panics. In the lights of the restaurant, Credence’s eyes are white. “I want them to know.”

Bianca’s face drains of color. Queenie’s eyes are wide, and Jacob’s warily half out of his seat, already prepared for trouble. Tina’s drawn back, Young Theseus held tight enough that he’s protesting, and Newt and Theseus are united in looking tight and frightened. James’ eyes flick between Credence and Bianca, assessing.

“I see,” Bianca says after a moment.

Graves’ rests his hand over Credence’s on the table. It’s warning and restraint, and Credence sits back slowly. “We need to find her,” Graves says, not remarking on what just happened.

“Good luck,” Bianca says. Some of the color is coming back to her face and she stares Credence down with only a small tremor in her voice. “And if you’re here to stop her from destroying my city…you’d better be careful not to do any damage yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hotel Metropole: http://www.historichotelsworldwide.com/hotels-resorts/metropole-hotel/history.php
> 
> Some of the inspiration for the gondola description is due to Lemony Snicket’s 2010 NaNoWriMo pep talk, which has carried me through more writing than I care to remember. https://nanowrimo.org/pep-talks/lemony-snicket
> 
> The economy of Venice during the early 1930s is an interesting conundrum. At the same time that unemployment rates were high and poverty was rising, Venice would host its first opulent and star-studded film festival in late 1932. As usual, people at different levels of society were very differently affected by the same events. 
> 
> Additionally, things are complicated by the fact that Italy _was_ under a Fascist regime at the time. Large-scale economic changes to control the economy were happening, somewhere overhead. Our crew isn’t so concerned with that, just now: they’re attempting to track down a human nuke. Context in this case of the journey here isn't, for once, quite as imperative as the motion of the plot.


	37. Chapter 37

“I think we need to make ourselves a little more visible,” Theseus says.

Jacob shakes his head. “No, that seems like a bad thing.”

“Not more attention yet,” Graves says. “We don’t know where they’re keeping her.”

Strategy meetings in the suitcase are such old hat by now that no one even finds them remarkable. Credence has Dougal on his lap, combing out the Demiguise’s soft fur and putting the shed fur in a basket Newt provided. Graves is holding Pickett, with half a dozen young Bowtruckles climbing his suspenders. Newt himself isn’t there: he’s putting Young Theseus to bed. The poor child’s exhausted from all the running around. Tina has already said that she’s staying in the suitcase with him tomorrow, to give him a chance to rest.

“I think we should take a look at the Rialto,” Queenie says. “If she was there, then there might be things the Aurors overlooked that Credence will notice.”

“Fair,” James says. “I agree with Queenie.”

Tina, sitting on the Thunderbird rock, laughs. “You just want to go shopping there.”

“I do not!” Queenie protests. She sends a sly smile at James. “But he does.”

Unapologetically, James grins. “Of course I do. And the rest of you do, too!”

Graves admits to some small hesitation, but he goes without complaint when they set out the next morning for the Rialto markets. Newt, Tina, and Theseus all beg off from going. Graves had expected Theseus to be excited, but he says he’d rather help Newt today. They plan to work with the creatures while everyone else is gone; the suitcase has as usual been somewhat neglected with all the chaos of travel and investigation. The look shared between Newt and Theseus is heartwarming.

As for the rest of them, the walk to the Rialto is no less magical than their explorations yesterday, and when they enter the busy market district it’s perhaps even more so. They stop for a while to watch a glass-blower, whose fancies are brought to life in rainbow colors. Jacob buys a glass flower, which he gives to Queenie; she tucks it in her hair and charms it to stay there, unbroken. And there’s a shop with masks, which they try on with delight. Every possible face and form, it seems, and though Graves normally hates masks he can’t deny the charm and magic here.

And at last they come to the Rialto Bridge, the great white arch of stone that spans the Grand Canal of Venice. There are small shops here, and on the street stretching away from either side of the bridge are market stalls. Boats—not only gondolas, but larger craft—pass under the bridge, going up and down the canal. The green water is slightly rougher from the traffic, but sparkles more for it in the sunlight. Graves wants to imagine walking over that bridge every day to visit the fish market and the greengrocer. But he puts the thoughts out of his head. There’s no point to imagining things like that.

“What news on the Rialto?” he asks aloud as they begin their walk up the bridge.

“Who knows?” Jacob says. He doffs his hat and looks up at the blue sky. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Credence looks increasingly twitchy and tense. “She was here,” he informs them, in a low voice, so passers won’t hear. “I don’t think it was a catastrophe, though. Whatever happened, it wasn’t the Obscurus acting directly, but it has the same…sense.”

“Then where did she go?” James mutters.

“I don’t know,” Credence says. “She didn’t go under her own power, but…there obviously wasn’t a fight to make her go. We’d see the signs.”

“Half the city would be on fire, you mean,” Jacob says.

Graves nods. “But that girl is the Obscurial. You’re sure of that, Credence?”

“I am,” Credence says.

The confirmation of all their suspicions casts a pall over the five, and they stand for a while near the side of the bridge, watching the life of Venice happen around them. Graves isn’t unhappy. At least, he isn’t any unhappier than he was earlier when they arrived. No, there’s a certain sense of relief in this, in knowing that the Obscurial is within his reach. He can find her. He can _help_ her.

That’s all that matters.

James rouses them at last. “Come on,” he says. “We have some time to kill before we go and meet up with Newt’s friend. I believe that something sweet is in order for us.”

“Right. Good plan,” Jacob says, offering his arm to Queenie.

Before taking it, Queenie looks up at Graves. “How about you meet us back here in an hour or so?” she says.

He smiles at her, and she stands on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Keep an eye on these rapscallions,” he says.

“No fear there,” Jacob says.

Queenie laughs and links her arm through his, kissing him square on the lips. “Come on, boys.” And with that, she, James, and Jacob are gone.

“What are we doing?” Credence asks, turning to Graves.

He leads Credence back over the bridge, the other way. “I made you a promise, yesterday,” he says, “and I intend to keep it.”

Credence looks confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

At a small canal, Graves stops and guides Credence down a flight of steps. There’s a gondola bobbing gently in the water, and Credence breaks into a delighted smile. He makes a sound of pleased surprise. “You romantic old fool,” he murmurs to Graves as they step down into the gondola.

“Proudly,” Graves replies. “That makes two of us.”

They sit side by side in the gondola, so close that they’re completely pressed together on the whole side. Graves has to admit a certain sense of awkwardness: they so rarely engage in displays of public affection. Besides, it feels frivolous to do this, when tonight they’ll go to meet Newt’s contact and see if they can locate the missing Obscurial. But Graves decides that this is the calm before the storm and doesn’t mention it to Credence.

It’s not like being on any other boat, not when it moves so smoothly through the canals. All is quiet, except for the verbal signals of other passing gondolas. He and Credence could very well be alone, and somehow it’s easy to pretend that even the gondolier isn’t even there. Overhead the houses rise, flowers hanging over them. The water is cool, when it splashes up once.

At some point Graves, quite casually, puts an arm around Credence’s shoulders. Credence leans into him, and when he turns his head he can very easily kiss Graves. Things are prevented from escalating only by the presence of the gondolier, who coughs when Graves does his level best to make the kiss deeper. Credence turns red, but Graves can only laugh, and when they dock again pays the gondolier a little extra, for his trouble.

“Enjoy yourself?” Graves as they begin to make their way back toward the Rialto Bridge.

Credence tugs him out of sight around a corner. “Of course I did,” he murmurs.

They finish the kiss they’d tried to start in the gondola, before going back to meet their friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Time to kill” is attested from 1728. Strangely modern!
> 
> “What news on the Rialto?”—from The Merchant of Venice.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The camera which stops time, belonging to the Valentini family: yes, that is a shoutout to the Evil Within 2. Credence would fit right in with the world of STEM…
> 
> Notes moved to the beginning for reasons of *drama.*

“I can only take one or two people with me,” Newt informs them at the Hotel Metropole when they return. “He’s a skittish kind of man.”

“I would be, if I dealt in illegally enchanted objects,” Theseus puts in.

Tina makes a face. “What kind of business is that?”

“At some point we should stop judging everyone else for doing illegal things,” Jacob says.

“He’s got a point, I guess,” Theseus says.

Jacob elbows him. “Sometimes I got smarts.”

Graves sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The task at hand, please.”

They’d gathered in Newt and Tina’s room to strategize. It isn’t necessarily going particularly well tonight. Tina and Queenie occupy the bed, with Young Theseus playing with blocks between them. James and Graves have taken the room’s two armchairs, leaving the other four men to find places to sit or stand as they will. Credence has taken up residence at the foot of the bed beside Theseus, while Jacob stands by the window and Newt sits with one of his notebooks on his lap in the corner.

“Yes,” Newt says. “The task at hand. I can’t bring seven other people. And I don’t need anyone who’ll get us spotted or make him think we’re going to arrest him.”

“Rules Theseus and I right out, then,” James says. “Good luck.”

“I probably shouldn’t go either,” Credence says with a small scowl.

Queenie shakes her head. “And I ain’t going.”

“You won’t want a Muggle—” Jacob starts, but Newt cuts him off with a shake of the head.

“I rather do want you, I think,” he says. “You’re better at spotting things than the rest of us put together, you know.”

Tina sighs. “As much as I want to go, we need to send Graves.”

Graves looks at her askance. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she says. “If Jacob has the sense and Newt has the contact, you have the head for a fight if it comes to that.”

“Fair enough,” Graves admits.

“Right then,” James says. “Jacob and Graves will go with Newt.”

“If something goes wrong—what do we do?” Queenie asks. “Where’ll we meet?”

James shrugs. “On St. Mark’s Square,” he says. “It’s out in the open, where we’ll draw attention from everyone. Aurors will have to come in and there’ll be Muggle attention, which means we have a chance of escape in the chaos.”

“How will we even know if something went badly?” Credence asks.

“Time,” Newt says, pushing off the wall and heading for the door. Graves and Jacob scramble to follow. “We’ll be back in no more than three hours.”

The streets of Venice are getting dark. They’re still busy, but there’s an eerie quality to them now, heavily shadowed; the sound of water in the canals is no longer innocent but rather nerve-wracking. Deep down, Graves once thinks he sees lights drifting in the lagoon. He looks away swiftly, reminding himself that it’s only merfolk.

It takes almost an hour to trek across Venice. Graves and Jacob keep close together on Newt’s heels. The magizoologist is visibly tense. He hasn’t said much about what sort of man they’re going to meet, but he deals in illegally enchanted objects and has Newt on edge. Graves is already prepared for a complete disaster.

At an empty building, with the windows boarded over, they stop and go to the door. The street is empty and dark; it’s only the three of them. Newt stares up at the façade for a long moment, unmoving.

“I don’t like this,” Jacob mutters. “Wish I had a pistol.”

“I wish you did, too,” Graves replies in a low voice, holding his wand ready at his side.

And then Newt raises the knocker and raps it six times, pauses, and raps six time again. There’s a long pause. Then the door swings open, spilling brilliant light out into the street. For half a second, Graves is blind and can’t quite see the man in the doorway except as a shadow, and then his eyes adjust.

“Newton!” the man exclaims in his reedy voice, extending a hand. “Come in, come in!”

With great care, Newt takes the man’s hand and shakes it, stepping inside. “Grygast,” he says softly, nonthreateningly, as though he’s approaching some unknown predator. “These are my friends…”

Jacob is hot on Newt’s heels and Graves follows him in. In the light, the man is fully visible. He’s pale, curly blond hair kept unfashionably long; short, narrow, and thin, he reminds Graves of nothing so much as a bird. Though he smiles brilliantly, charm in every motion, his eyes are oddly dull and flat. He shakes Jacob’s hand and introduces himself: “Grygast Pipino, a salesman of exceptional objects!”

“Well, what do you sell?” Jacob asks, looking around the empty, dusty foyer. It’s bare, wood rough, scratches and drag marks across the floor.”

“Everything! Come and look,” Pipino says, smile back in full force. He turns and throws open the door behind them, walking deeper into the house. At Newt’s beckon, Graves and Jacob follow. The house is a house of marvels, apparently, and Pipino means to show them as much as he can. And Graves is stunned and slightly horrified by the things that Pipino shows them.

Screwed into a lamp is a light bulb which, when lit, deafens everyone cast in its light. There’s a bottle of purple nail polish, which Pipino unabashedly wears, enchanted to prevent injury by electricity when painted on the fingers and toes; to demonstrate its magical properties, he sticks a fork in an electrical socket and comes away unharmed.

There is a folding fan of dusty red lace which eliminates headaches, and Graves sees Jacob eyeing it speculatively, obviously for Queenie. There’s a crystal abacus, which has no apparent properties except that it’s been perfectly carved from a single giant diamond. A painting hangs on one wall, an innocent thing in chalk pastels, depicting a seaside town; no people appear in the image, but Graves sees strange movement in the painted waters.

A small porcelain doll, grotesquely sculpted, floats above its shelf. That’s unnerving enough that Jacob whispers to Graves that maybe they should leave. Still, these are all small objects, decently magical and a little uncanny, but fundamentally harmless. Not all of Pipino’s treasures are so.

Pipino shows them a small linen chest of cherry wood which, he says, induces insanity in the purchaser. “That’s why I didn’t purchase it,” he says with a cocky smile, “the poor sod who actually owns it is locked up these days…”

Another strange thing is a camera which, when aimed at a subject, will freeze the subject briefly in time. “Belonged to the Valentini family,” Pipino says, petting the camera fondly. “They used it for much darker things than I do. I don’t stab the people whose possessions I take.”

Graves is particularly unnerved by a potted shrub with small, pointy leaves and pink flowers, inside of which are bloody eyeballs that roll to follow him as he passes.

In a horrifically cluttered sitting room, tasting of dust and filled with soft source-less yellow light, Pipino hands off to Newt two bottles: one of a coarse purple powder that smells like glue and burnt ginger and a second of oily gold liquid that reeks of rotting beans. “I don’t know what these are,” he says, “and you’re the better potions man between us.”

Newt sighs and tucks them away. “I’ll look into them. But Grygast—”

“Sit down, sit down,” he says, and they do. “So. You’re here to talk to me about goods smuggled into Venice that I might know about?”

“You know everyone here and on half the rest of the continent,” Newt says. “And you owe me one, for taking the Niffler off your hands.”

“Wait, wait!” Jacob says, turning to Newt. “You mean to tell me—”

Newt nods briefly. “Yes, he was in Grygast’s possession.”

“Damn little beast wouldn’t do as it was told,” Pipino mutters.

Graves thinks of all the missing cufflinks—and the number of buttons Credence has given up to bribe it into ceasing its thievery—and smiles. “I’m sure.”

“But I guess I do owe you,” Pipino says. He smiles warmly. “You know I’d have happily done you a favor, Newton.”

“We just need information,” Newt says. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He glances at Graves and Jacob, and Jacob takes the bait first.

“There’s a weapon in Venice,” Jacob says. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying Pipino closely. “It probably caused the incident on the Rialto. Got anything?”

Pipino furrows his brow, leaning back. “I thought that was…oh.” His eyes narrow to slits. “Are you here about Grindelwald’s men?”

“Yes,” Jacob says. “They’re the ones who brought her.”

“I don’t traffic with them,” Pipino says sharply. “They’re bad for business. Aurors come sniffing around and that is never pleasant.”

Jacob nods. “Ain’t gonna argue with that,” he says. “I’m a No-Maj, Grygast. Don’t want to deal with Aurors much myself.”

“Aurors are more trouble than they’re worth,” Pipino says. He looks sideways at Graves. “And still, here you are running with one of them as outlaws. You’re either a fool, or the most cunning man in the world, Mr. Kowalski.”

“Maybe both,” Jacob says cheerfully. “Look. We ain’t here to get you in trouble. But if you don’t want to deal with Grindelwald’s people, then you at least have to know where they are, so you can avoid them, right?”

Pipino’s eyes narrow even further. It’s eerie, like looking at a mask, and Graves begins to have an inkling of why he makes Newt nervous. Graves takes stock of the embroidered dressing gown Pipino wears, of the rings on his hand, of the buckle on his shoe. How many of his own enchanted items is he wearing? How dangerous is he? “I know where they are,” he says. “But I want no part in any of this. What guarantee—”

“We’re wanted fugitives,” Graves cuts in sharply. “Or if we aren’t yet, we will be eventually. Do you think we’d really run around turning you in?”

“Besides…you know I wouldn’t,” Newt says, placating. “Have I ever?”

After a few moments’ consideration, Pipino nods. “They’re at San Canciano,” he says. “Dropped Muggle-Repelling Charms and Anti-Disapparition Jinxes everywhere. The Aurors haven’t caught on yet, but everyone smart is staying out of their way.”

“How many?” Jacob asks.

“Twenty or so,” Pipino says. He stands up, pulls out his wand, and waves it. A shallow stone basin carved with runes floats out from a cabinet and comes to rest on a table. Inside is a silvery substance, rolling and shifting like a strange heavy fog. “But they can show you better than I can tell you. I have friends in high places, and…let us simply say that I have come into possession of memories of a witness to the incident on the Rialto Bridge.”

Jacob leans forward, looking down at the bowl. “What is this?”

“A Pensieve,” Newt says. “Very rare…and very powerful.”

“I use it to trace artifact provenance,” Pipino says. He withdraws a vial from his pocket, swirling with the same substance. “If you’d like, you can use it to trace the identity of Grindelwald’s men.”

Jacob, Graves, and Newt all look at each other. “Yes,” Jacob says for all of them.

“I’ll stay out of the memory,” Newt says, drawing back. No surprise there.

“Can a Muggle use it?”

“There’s no incantation, and all of us have memories that work the same.” Pipino carefully empties the memory into the bowl. “Now. Just put your faces in the bowl.” He steps back and waits, watching Jacob and Graves carefully.

Taking a deep breath, Graves leans forward and presses his face into the Pensieve.

In the very next moment, Graves is standing on the Rialto Bridge in broad daylight. He blinks in the sudden sun, and shakes himself. Pensieves are always disorienting. Beside him, Jacob looks flummoxed. Graves looks around at the bridge. Passerby are coming and going, and on the canal below there are boats. But absolutely no one notices either Graves or Jacob.

“So this is a memory, huh,” Jacob says. He shakes his head. “Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

“It’s been a long time since I was in a Pensieve,” Graves says.

Jacob looks around. “Got much experience?”

Graves shrugs offhandedly. “Examined a lot of witness memories, but I never owned one personally…I don’t have many memories I wish to revisit.”

With a nod, Jacob lets the conversation go. “What are we looking for?”

“Whoever took the girl,” Graves says. He studies the people passing by. “They’ll look ordinary enough, I suppose, but—”

At the peak of the bridge, there’s the sudden sound of sobbing. Graves and Jacob look at each other, and then rush up the slope. There’s a small crowd gathered, and a young girl’s voice shouting, “No! I don’t want to! Stop!”

“You do as you’re told!” someone snaps. Graves flinches at the sound of a slap and then—

The whole bridge shakes. Though they aren’t knocked off balance, Graves grabs at Jacob’s shoulder anyway. People scream, clutching at the rail, running down the side and out of the way, scattering away from the girl.

“I said no!” the girl screams.

And that’s when half the crowd on the bridge simply rises into the air. The screaming now is a cacophony. A hundred voices—the scream of an Obscurus.

“There!” Jacob says, pointing. Through the sudden break in the crowd, Graves sees them: a tall, fair man and a woman who would look pleasant except for the snarl twisting her face. And the girl, the Obscurial, a small storm of shadows around her feet, back to Graves and Jacob.

She turns and begins to run, and Graves’ heart stops at the terrified look on her face. He shouts and reaches out for her, but of course she doesn’t see and the two escorts are on her in an instant, casting a Sleeping Charm on her and Apparating away. People fall from the air, screaming and crying, police are shouting and there’s the crack of Aurors Apparating in—

And they explode out of the Pensieve again. Graves and Jacob both rock back, jarred by the sudden return to the present. “Well?” Newt asks. “What did you see?”

“I saw her face,” Jacob says.

“Will you remember it?” Pipino asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t think I can _forget_ ,” Graves says. He thinks of the look of sickening fear on the child’s face, and notices that his hands are clenched in fists of rage. “We have to find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUNNNNNNNNNN


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter full of *drama*, so footnotes are now beginning notes!
> 
> Here’s a photo of acqua alta in 1933: https://www.theguardian.com/cities/gallery/2015/jun/16/history-flooding-sinking-city-venice-in-pictures
> 
> As for the church, this site has good pictures of the interior: http://www.sancancianovenezia.it/index.php?page=2
> 
> **There's an awful lot of violence in this chapter. Forewarned is forearmed.**

Everyone is in the suitcase, hanging around the central plaza and waiting. Graves is last down the ladder. He closes the lid of the suitcase behind them, and locks it.

“Welcome back!” Theseus calls, from where he stands holding Dougal so that Tina can brush his long fur, a little tangled from roughhousing with Young Theseus.

“Did you find out—?” James asks.

“We did," Jacob says soberly.

Graves sits down on the steps. “A little blonde girl, maybe thirteen at the outside,” he says.

Queenie's reading his mind again. “At the Church of San Canciano?”

James whistles. “Long walk!”

Newt takes Dougal carefully from Theseus, pausing to kiss Tina’s cheek. “Not so bad, really.”

“Bad when the high tide comes in tomorrow,” Theseus says. “It’s a real high one, or supposed to be. The whole city will flood—no good walking in that, and I’d rather not risk Apparation.”

Graves shakes his head. “We don’t have time to waste. The opposition’s too strong.”

Tina furrows her brow, setting the brush kit aside. “How many?”

“Oh, twenty or so,” Jacob says.

Theseus scowls. He folds his arms, leaning against the Thunderbird perch. “I don’t much like those odds. We have six who can fight, and there’s a baby to worry about.”

“Excuse you, Scamander,” Jacob says, folding his arms, “Queenie went head to head with Grindelwald more than once. And I’m no slouch!”

“There’s no one casting doubt on you, Jacob,” Graves says. “Least of all me. But against twenty trained wizards, things can still get...unpleasant.”

Jacob nods, sticking his hands in his pockets. “…guess I can’t argue with that. I’d better stay here. But I think Queenie had better go.”

“I ain’t all that!” Queenie says, looking askance at him.

“No, he’s right,” Tina says. “You can hear Obscurials a mile off, you’ve told me that yourself.”

Graves notices that Credence is sitting inconspicuously to the side, studying his hands. He isn’t saying anything, which Graves takes as a rather bad sign. Credence usually has so much to say.

“I’ll go—” Newt starts, but James waves him down.

“No, no,” he says. “You’re the only one who can take care of all these creatures. And I think I’d better stay behind, too.”

Graves gives James a blank look. “Why…?”

James shrugs. “I’m rusty,” he says. “Still better than most wizards, but I can’t be a liability.”

That’s a lie and Graves knows it. He’s seen James’ wand-work and it hasn’t been that long since his retirement. But a thought occurs to him: it’s uncommon, within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to send romantic partners on assignments together. There’s just far too much risk of one or the other cracking under fire when their partner gets hurt. Of course, regular professional partners run the same risk, but it’s somehow considered different.

If Graves has to guess, James is trying to minimize chaos. Graves will have enough to worry about, coordinating all these people, protecting Queenie, finding the child, and keeping a handle on Credence. If James is there, Graves might make mistakes out of reflex borne of habit, and James and Theseus have something happening besides. There’s too much knotted up here for James to be anything but a liability, and though Graves wishes he would come, he’s grateful for James’ professionalism.

“All right,” Graves says. “Then, Tina?”

“Of course,” she says. She rolls up her sleeves briskly. “Remind me to tell you about my four-on-one duel against Siren smugglers.”

Newt clears his throat. “It was three-on-one.”

“Details,” Tina says airily. She waves her hand. “I’m yours, Graves. Just like old times.”

“When will we go?” Queenie asks.

Theseus shrugs. “I recommend extremely early in the morning,” he says.

“I like that,” Graves says.

Credence raises his head, and his eyes are hazed over with white. Everyone draws back a bit, and Graves starts up a bit, alarmed. “So do I,” he says. “We go early. And we _find her._ ”

 

***

 

Morning comes far too early. Graves doesn’t bother hiding his wand at all as they depart into the streets. He wants it in his hand today. The safe surety of it—of a wand that has never willingly betrayed him—is necessary at such a time like this. Tina and Theseus carry their wands much the same way; Credence has foregone his entirely; and, Graves is pleased to see, Queenie might be nervous but holds her wand just as he coached her a long time ago, teaching her to duel.

Queenie is the closest to a civilian that they have. She’s an asset in any fight, of course, but at the odds they’re facing everyone would rather that Queenie run if things go wrong. At least she’s got the head to be able to take care of what needs to be done, should it come to that.

Theseus has a map of Venice already practically memorized, after a night’s intense study, and a simple Point Me will do the job of getting them there. He and Graves lead the way to the Church of San Canciano. When they go, it’s not light at all and any lights are muffled by the fog. It’s heavy in the city streets, thickest over the canals. The atmosphere is eerie, as if the whole city is holding its breath.

They move fast. It’s a necessity when the acqua alta will arrive soon. In the distance, bells toll to signal the rising of the tide. It could be one of any of the churches, but there are so many that Graves can’t pinpoint exactly where the bells toll. The sound sends shivers up his spine.

“It’s drowning,” Tina says. “The whole city.”

“And so will we, if we don’t move fast,” Graves says tightly.

They come around a corner, and there in a small square they see it: the Church of San Canciano, a small and unassuming building. Graves surveys the area, and immediately sees damage to buildings in the vicinity. The silence here is the silence of emptiness, not of tension. There are no Muggles in this neighborhood.

For a fleeting moment Graves wonders how in the hell the Venetian Aurors didn’t notice this kind of damage. Did they know and simply not care? Were they ordered not to care? Picquery had already hinted at treachery in the Confederation and Bianca told them that there was active support for Grindelwald here. Even if it’s not a deliberate betrayal, Aurors, and governments, seem to have an extremely selective and brief attention span. Graves knows that bitterly well.

“Well?” Theseus asks Queenie in an undertone.

“She’s here,” Queenie says, gazing at the door. “Scared to death—so much static, must be going half crazy, poor thing.”

Credence looks up at the doors with an unreadable expression. His eyes are white and he’s going to smoke the edges. “Let’s hurry.”

“Yeah,” Tina says. She squares off with the door, wand raised. “Forget stealth.”

She lets out a sharp shout and a blast of invisible force punches into the door. The hinges shear off and masonry and wood go tumbling and right on their heels sprint the wizards outside. No one saw this coming—the room is full of shocked cries and running wizards.

Theseus is fast off the mark and as violent as Credence. “ _Tempestas_!” he roars, wand circling, and hail pummels the room on conjured winds. The gathered men scatter.

Only about half rise from their crouch, already regrouping and casting counterspells. They have the hard look of true fanatics, and Graves fleetingly recognizes the two people from the memory. “Much better odds,” Graves mutters as the remainder—ten in all—begin to circle warily.

Someone fires a spell at Credence and Credence casts one of his wildly powerful Shield Charms, the spell dies in a roar of silver—

—everything explodes.

Theseus is a savage fighter, pushing his opponents back with rapid-fire powerful spells that send them reeling on their heels. Out of the corner of his eye Graves sees Tina ably dueling two at once. Queenie is facing off with one, Legilimency letting her stay one step ahead. And Graves doesn’t get a chance to see Credence because he’s rather busy dealing with his own charging opponents.

There are four of them.

For a split second, Graves is afraid.

And then one of them casts a Stunning Spell—basic, Graves blocks it with his wand hand and casts a wordless Blasting Curse at the same moment. He recognizes the Sinking Spell as the wizard casts it and scornfully sidesteps, slamming a Stunning Spell into the attacker’s chest.

One of them is about to go for an Unforgiveable, Graves knows that look of desperate willpower, and all it takes to cut that off is a snapped-out Reductor Curse that blows a bloody hole through the woman’s leg—

And then Credence is standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. One of the fanatics goes down to Credence’s Body-Bind Curse and Graves shares a fierce grin with Credence as both of them dive into the fray, holding nothing back.

Graves doesn’t slow down, lashing them with lightning, as Credence knocks their legs out from under them with a minor earthquake. As one manages to conjure a volley of bullets, Graves blocks it and Credence takes advantage to nail one of them with a Biting Jinx. It’s going to be a short fight at this rate.

Suddenly, a young girl’s voice pierces through the chaos.

“Stop! Please stop! Just stop!”

The fight slows. It’s enough for Graves to turn and look. And there she is: the Obscurial, standing in front of the altar. Her blonde hair is in disarray, her shadows shaking and shattering apart. Graves starts to move toward her, and then she bolts toward him. No, she's running towards—

“ _Credence_!”

In a blink, Credence is sprinting toward her. “Modesty! _Modesty!_ ”

Tina screams something, but Graves misses what it is. Someone has seized the girl and is dragging her away, still reaching for Credence. Credence gives Graves a panicked look and Graves shouts at him to go, _now_ , as the two fighters left standing get back on their feet and the person carrying the girl Apparates away—

There’s a titanic _crack_ as Credence Apparates, off in pursuit.

And that’s about the moment that everything else goes horribly wrong.

There are more earsplitting cracks, the sounds of wizards Apparating in, and suddenly the ranks of the fanatics are bolstered by twenty or more, all with murder on their minds. Theseus swears and suddenly all four of them are back to back, in a ring of wizards.

“What now?” Tina mutters grimly.

“Buy time,” Theseus says.

Graves shakes his head slowly. “Tina, Theseus…hold onto me. Queenie, you need to run.”

“On your mark,” she whispers.

Tina’s arm links slowly through Graves’, and Theseus has a secure hold on his other arm. “Now,” Graves says aloud, and without pause he Apparates.

They come down a block from the church, landing in water over the cobblestones. They waited too long. The waters are rising. High tide is coming. Venice is flooding.

“Did Queenie get out!?” Tina pants.

“Yes,” Theseus says, “now _run_ —!”

There’s no choice but to keep going. They’re being pursued, everyone in that church hot on their heels, firing curses after them that they have only split seconds to dodge or return. And Graves always has his eye ahead, where the flickering figures show that Credence is giving chase to the person with the Obscurial.

He’s on a rooftop when he sees it happen. In a small square ahead, a spell flashes and the man carrying the Obscurial goes down. The girl stumbles to her feet. Credence sprints to her side, dropping to his knees, and they embrace, and _everyone is Apparating into the square behind them_ —

“Credence!” Tina shouts, as someone hurls a Killing Curse. Credence ducks, not a second too late, and the curse wings over his head.

Graves Apparates in right over Credence and the Obscurial. She’s curled in his arms, sobbing, and Credence looks panicked. There’s no time for anything but offense: Graves summons fire and lightning, every powerful spell he knows, and things that aren’t spells but simply expressions of rage and power, everything he can bring to bear. Tina and Theseus are fighting just as hard, unleashing everything they’ve got against this overwhelming force. More are arriving and Graves wonders briefly if this is it—

And then something else howls, a new storm rises, and Graves looks to the side to see Credence’s body fracturing at the seams as he holds the Obscurial tight. “ _Get down_ ,” Credence says. His voice is a scream, his eyes are white—

Graves drops flat and prays Tina and Theseus did too.

Credence lets go.

The Obscurus screams and howls, raging through the square. Water surges and splashes and the square shakes. Lights flash and shadows roil, magic burning and blazing. People are screaming and there’s the sickening sound of bodies breaking—

And then it’s over.

The city completely silent, except the distant toll of a warning bell.

Credence on his knees, the young Obscurial still in his arms, sobbing in his shoulder.

Tina and Theseus staggering upright.

Bodies sprawled everywhere.

The water in the square running red.

Graves stares down at Credence, whose eyes are still perfectly white.

Tina grabs Graves by the shoulders. “We have to go,” she says, gray with shock. “Aurors will come—Graves, what did Credence—”

“Later,” Graves says. He picks the child up from Credence’s unresisting arms and hands her to Theseus, who looks horrified but all right. He hauls Credence to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him upright.

And then they’re gone, Apparated away from the battlefield. Back to the safety of the rooms at the Hotel Metropole. Away from this…massacre.


	40. Chapter 40

Credence has to lie down, so utterly fatigued that he can barely walk. The Obscurial—Modesty—utterly stunned, is passed over to Newt and Jacob, possibly most qualified to help a traumatized child in her current state. She doesn’t protest—Graves isn’t sure she can.

“Did you know her?” Theseus asks, the second that they’re alone.

“That’s my sister,” Credence whispers. “Modesty—”

“I thought you were the only one in the family,” Tina says in a small voice.

Queenie wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Ain’t your fault.”

“I should have known,” Credence says. “Grindelwald—he even told me it was a child, a child close to me in the church, I just thought he was wrong.”

James and Theseus are simply watching in silence. Graves is grateful that they aren’t asking any questions. Those can be answered later. “I thought Modesty was Obliviated and placed in an orphanage,” he says. “That’s what you told me, Credence.”

“That’s what I thought,” Credence says in a small voice.

There are tears, Graves notices, gathering in the corners of his still-white eyes.

With a sniff, rubbing at her own eyes, Tina shakes her head. “No one bothered to check. We were all so confused. New York was still a wreck and we were looking for Graves and it was easiest to just assume that you’d been the only magical child the whole time. I’m sorry, Credence, I am _so sorry_ —”

She starts to sob. With visible effort, whole body shaking, Credence levers himself off the bed and pulls Tina into a tight hug. They lean on each other, both crying. Queenie quietly begins to push people out of the room, and Graves follows her direction.

The door closes behind them, and any further conversation is blocked out.

“Is…” James pauses, and then looks Graves in the eye. “Are all those bloodstains yours, Percy?”

Graves looks down at himself. And then he looks at Theseus, whose clothes are in the same exact state. “No,” he says. “We won.”

“ _Credence_ won, if you can call that winning,” Theseus says, dropping down to sit on the floor. “I haven’t seen that many bodies in one place since the trenches. Graves. You didn’t…you didn’t warn us about that. That he could do that.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t think he would,” Graves says.

James is just looking at him. Graves feels…judged. “Well, we know now,” James says. “And what do we do about it?”

“Aim him right at Grindelwald,” Theseus says instantly.

“He’s not a weapon—” Graves starts, but James holds up a hand.

“And what do both of you plan to do if Credence decides to put the Confederation in his sights?”

That stops everyone cold.

“Why would he do that?” Theseus asks. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It don’t make any sense to _us_ ,” Queenie cuts in. “But you got to consider the psychology of it.”

Three pairs of eyes turn incredulously to her. “Psychology?” James asks first.

“Muggle science,” Queenie says. “Study of the mind. I don’t know half as much as I like but I’ve been a Legilimens all my life and it really helps. What I’m saying is that Credence _thinks_ differently than we do. The Muggles ain’t really got a clue about souls or consciousness, but they do understand behavior better than we do. How you live shapes you, it ain’t all inside your head like wizards tend to think. We all had pretty nice upbringings. Sure, we had our troubles, but we all got to grow up. Went and found our own way.”

“So did Credence,” Theseus says.

Queenie shakes her head. “Ain’t the same thing. We had friends, too, and families that loved us. Credence never had that. He learned his whole life that he has to protect himself and can’t trust anybody at all. Takes a long time to un-learn that kind of thing, and living five years alone on a mountain in fear of being found probably made it worse.”

Graves winces. “Fair enough,” he says.

James watches Queenie keenly. “How does all this connect to Credence?”

“Because it’s all a part of what the Muggles call _conditioning_ ,” she says. “It’s real complicated—with the brain connecting things that ain’t connected because they happen together, like hearing the dinner bell and getting hungry because you know food’s coming, or learning how to act because getting it wrong gets you punished and getting it right gets you rewarded. That’s how we grow up and build our minds, you see?”

“Makes sense,” Theseus says. “House points at Hogwarts always did encourage good behavior…”

Queenie nods. “Yeah, just like that. But Credence has spent his whole life connecting all kinds of things to pain, and he learned when he was little that no matter what he did he’d be punished. His whole world is turned upside down and ain’t none of us can really understand what it’s like to live in that kind of mind. It don’t make sense to us that Credence would blame the Confederation for what happened to Modesty, but in his head I think that everyone is responsible. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out that he thinks everyone should pay for it.”

 

***

 

Newt tells Graves that Modesty has asked to see him specifically.

“Is that wise?” Graves asks, following Newt to his room.

“It may not be,” Newt says, “but I’m more concerned about telling her no.”

That, Graves thinks, is a problem to deal with soon. The biggest risk is to tell an Obscurial _no_ , which is concerning. But for now, Graves doesn’t think that Modesty will be any kind of problem.

“Modesty,” he says, sitting down by the bed in which she lies. “My name is—”

“Percival Graves,” she says in a remarkably clear and steady voice. “I know.”

Graves takes her measure. A small thirteen, more malnourished than she should be, with eyes that have a haunted look. But the stubborn set of her mouth says a lot about her personality. Seems that she and Credence are very alike. “How do you know, exactly?”

“They talked about you a lot,” Modesty says. “Graves this and Graves that.”

Jacob, sitting by the window, laughs. “Seems to be what everyone does,” he jokes, and that gets a small smile out of the girl.

“And I’ve seen your face before,” she says. “When Grindelwald was pretending to be you. He told me all about you and Credence when he came to get me.”

Graves glances at Newt and Jacob. They nod at him: they’ve heard this once already, at least. “I don’t understand why he came to get you,” he says. “How did he know?”

“He says it runs in families,” Modesty says, wrinkling her nose. “But Credence isn’t my blood relation. I think Ma was just collecting magical kids like us, to save our souls.”

As usual, when the Barebone woman is introduced to the conversation, Graves sends a hope up to whatever being exists that she is burning in the fieriest pits of any Hell that will take her. “Did you always know Credence was a witch, then?”

“I always knew _I_ was a witch,” she says, tossing her hair.

She sounds extremely pleased with herself.

“How didn’t she know?” Graves asks.

“Well, Credence didn’t ever like to admit he was, and he took care of me and made sure that Ma didn’t know about it. She thought he was the only one in the family.” Modesty pauses and studies the coverlet over her lap. “I feel real bad about that.”

Graves shakes his head. “He doesn’t regret it,” he says. “He’s told me as much many times.”

“I still feel bad,” Modesty says.

That’s fair enough, but Graves doesn’t want her to dwell on it. “How come no one but Grindelwald ever worked it out?”

“Because when they Obliviated me and took me to an orphanage, I was smart enough to pretend that the spells worked,” Modesty says. “It was a lot nicer than the church. I didn’t know that witchy things would start to happen, and then…”

“He came,” Graves fills in, when she pauses.

“I trusted him,” Modesty says glumly. “He told me it wasn’t his fault, what happened to Credence, that he could help me and protect me. I didn’t like his eyes but he was nice, and people’d never been nice to me much before but Credence and Miss Tina…”

On impulse, Graves puts his hand on her bony shoulder. “That changes today,” he says. “We’re going to take care of you, Modesty. And not like Grindelwald did. We don’t buy into that talk.”

“He’s a Muggle,” Modesty says, gesturing at Jacob. “I guess you wouldn’t buy in if you’re friends with him. I never liked that part of it. Wizards aren’t any better than Muggles at all…”

“Here’s to that,” Newt says.

It’s amazing how quickly Modesty’s gotten comfortable with Newt and Jacob, and Graves is glad to see it. For all that she and Credence aren’t blood relations, there’s certainly a strength of character that runs in the family. Modesty’s a good judge of people, all told, smart, and a survivor. It also probably helps that Credence shielded her from the worst of the abuse when they were children, but truly Graves is just happy to see how swiftly Modesty is adjusting to life among new people.

“Would you like to see Credence?” Graves asks, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes, please,” Modesty says, hands bunched in the coverlet. “If he’s…all right.”

“I don’t think we could stop him, even if he wasn’t,” Jacob says.

Newt heads for the door. “I’ll fetch him,” he says.

“I’ll let you two have your reunion,” Graves says, rising to his feet. He squeezes her shoulder lightly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Somehow, those were the right words to say. They make her blush—and smile. Graves considers that the greatest victory of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queenie here is talking about classical and operant conditioning. 
> 
> In classical conditioning, two unrelated stimuli are paired. One, the conditioned stimulus, is neutral—the sound of the dinner bell that Queenie gives. The other is the unconditioned stimulus, and it’s typically an uncontrolled reflex—becoming hungry. After these two stimuli are repeatedly paired, the simple act of perceiving the conditioned stimulus will trigger the unconditioned stimulus. The dinner bell rings, and because it rings your body becomes hungry. And that’s a reference to Pavlov’s dogs, of course. Those experiments are much more interesting than this short summary, so it’s worth reading up on. 
> 
> In operant conditioning, there’s a reward/punishment system. For succeeding or taking the correct action, you’re rewarded. For failing or taking the wrong action, you’re punished. Over time, even if the reward/punishment system stops, the fear of punishment or desire of reward will keep you acting in the desired manner. This is a *lot* more complicated than this, of course—there’s a whole debate about reward/punishment in criminal justice systems and prisons and so on—but that’s the basic gist of things.


	41. Chapter 41

Credence and Modesty are alone for a long time—past breakfast. After just a few moments, Newt and Jacob step out of the room. “They’ll be fine,” Jacob says. “Anyone for breakfast?”

They are, generally, for breakfast. Graves is a little shocked to discover that it’s only just now eight o’clock—had all of that really happened so early? After taking a moment to put himself together properly, he joins everyone else.

Breakfast is fairly small, not exactly enough after spending a hectic morning dueling dark wizards and Apparating through Venice. There are hard biscuits, and coffee with milk, which Graves drinks and discovers that he actually likes. It’s been years since he tried coffee with anything in but a sprinkle of sugar to take off a bitter edge, and this is surprisingly nice.

Young Theseus has his “eggs,” which he eats with gusto. There’s some jam in it, which might be helping that. He’s an extremely cheerful child, and perhaps his mood is a general indicator of the day.

They have some work to do in the suitcase. There are trees that need pruning and paths that need sweeping and pens that need cleaning. Everyone, with obvious exception of Credence and Modesty, heads down to the suitcase to work, dispersing through the habitats. Graves is handed a pair of shears and sent off to a tree, working side by side with James. It’s work that could be done by magic, but no one protests at doing it by hand.

“Doing well, Percy?” James asks cheerfully.

Graves tosses aside a rather large branch. “Very,” he says. “You?”

“Likewise,” James says. “I swear, this adventure will be the thing that makes my hair finally turn gray.”

“Only fair,” Graves says. “I look eighty, it’s your turn.”

James scoffs and tosses a twig at Graves. “You look like a very distinguished fifty and no more.”

“I feel _eighty_ ,” Graves mutters. He snips at a particularly stubborn branch. “Besides, Credence says he likes the gray.”

“Of course he does,” James says.  

The conversation would have continued, but very suddenly the door of the shed opens and Credence and Modesty are revealed standing in the door. Modesty stares, eyes wide with surprise. After a moment, she says, simply, “ _Wow_.”

Graves turns and looks around the suitcase. Somehow, introducing new people to its wonders never tires. Judging by Newt’s satisfied smile, he feels much the same way.

Since the days of Graves’ first encounter with this suitcase, Newt’s done a lot of work expanding it. What was already impressive has become a monumental testament to love and patience. It’s very close to miraculous. New habitats have been added, and the existing ones have been expanded.

Right in front on the plaza there are the huge beetles, industriously working on the compost heap. To the right is the woodland, where the Unicorn is rumored to live—even Newt doesn’t see her often—and the small herd of eyeless deer walk eerily among the leaves. Further back is the jungle habitat, stretching back to the furthest reaches of the suitcase, hiding the Nundu in its depths.

Before them are the mountains where the Graphorns play, just to the side of the huge rock where Frank the Thunderbird had once perched and above which a storm now swirls, full of Wind Snakes. The desert is to the right, the Mongolian Death Worm lurking under the sands and the Kyactus strutting; the still-empty Arctic habitat is behind the grassland where the huge Erumpet lives with her calf. The entrance to the caves is behind the workshop, and Graves thinks fondly of the Runespoor which had lived there once upon a time. There’s also the shore of a miniature sea, with no permanent residents. Newt keeps it as a habitat for rescued ocean-going creatures.

The nocturnal habitat, where the Mooncalves chirp and play and the Niffler has its nest, rises up nearby. Close on hand is the bamboo forest where Dougal the Demiguise likes to hide, and towering above that the huge aquarium through which swim strange fish. The pond where the Carbuncles hide is just visible in the woodland. Just visible is an area meant for a few Australian creatures, a Drop Bear recovered from poachers and a pair of rare magical snakes involved in a breeding program, wafting the scent of eucalyptus toward them. And, of course, there’s the Thestral paddock.

And through it all, the creatures. Bowtruckles climb and chatter in their tree, fluttering Pixies dart about everywhere, and the drifting globes of water with Grindylows swimming inside float overhead. The Fwooper sits on its Silenced perch; the Swooping Evil hangs cocooned above the workshop door. In the mountains run the Graphorns, six adults now—Newt had by a miracle found mates for the two now-grown calves, and there will be more babies soon. The Occamies chirp and preen in their basket-shaped nest. Creature calls and chirps and roars echo from every corner of the suitcase, filling the air.

It’s like stepping into a miniature of the whole globe, all packed into one single suitcase.

 “It’s like the Garden of Eden,” Modesty whispers in awe, clutching Credence’s hand.

“I guess,” Credence says, smiling down at her.

There’s a long pause, and finally Modesty looks around. Everyone else has come back to the middle of the suitcase, waiting for introductions. The most curious creatures of all, Graves thinks, are now on display: wizards and witches and one No-Maj. Foreigners among all the magical beasts.

“Is this everybody?” Modesty asks.

Credence nods. “My family,” he says, a little bit awkwardly.

Tina crouches down on Modesty’s level. “Your family, if you want. You remember me?”

Modesty smiles. “Of course, Miss Tina!”

“It’s good to see you again.” Tina squeezes her shoulder briefly. Young Theseus, holding onto the side of Newt’s trousers for balance, stares at Modesty. She waves at him and he waves back, hiding his face behind Newt’s leg and cautiously peeping out. “And that’s our son,” Tina says. “Theseus.”

“And that,” Credence says, pointing at Theseus—keeping a wise and wary distance, with his huge personality—“is Newt’s brother. Also Theseus.”

“That’s too many Theseuses,” Modesty mutters and Tina stifles a laugh.

Theseus sighs. “I’m hated across every continent and right here in this suitcase!”

“I love you,” James says dryly, “even though I probably shouldn’t.”

“That’s James,” Credence says.

“I’m new,” James says. He smiles and sweeps a small bow in Modesty’s direction. “Delighted.” She giggles and gives an awkward shy curtsey.

Jacob comes up and shakes Modesty’s hand. “Good to see you again, kid,” he says. “You know, seeing you next to each other, looks like you’re a dead ringer for your brother.”

“I am not!” Modesty says, really laughing now. “We’re both adopted.”

“You’ve got the same eyes,” Jacob says, looking between them. Modesty hides her face and Credence turns a little red. Jacob doesn’t remark, though, only waves Queenie over. “This is Queenie.”

Modesty studies her. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says politely.

“Nice to meet you too, honey,” Queenie says. She smiles. “It’s good to have another girl around.”

“There are too many boys,” Modesty agrees, and Theseus lets out a groan of mock despair.

Graves hesitates. “Do we need a formal introduction?” he asks, looking at Modesty.

“No,” she says. She smiles. “We already know each other.”

“Right,” Graves says. “And that’s that.”

Modesty glances between Credence and Graves. “Credence…he’s the one you were in love with, right?”

Credence looks confounded. “Modesty!”

“I’m not blind,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “You wouldn’t have disobeyed Ma unless it was something out of a fairy tale. Um…extradordinary.”

“Percival really is _extraordinary_ ,” Credence allows, emphasizing the correct pronunciation, to Graves’ amusement. “Which is why…” He looks at Graves, and Graves nods. Nerves are no reason to keep secrets now. Best have it all out in the open.

 “Why what?” Modesty asks.

“Why I ended up married to him,” Credence says.

Modesty looks at Graves. “Well, he’s _exactly_ the kind of man I’d expect would like you.”

“What kind of man is that?” Graves asks, mock offended.

“Someone nice,” Modesty says simply, and that’s an end of that.

 

***

 

She has a room in the suitcase. They pull together to refurbish one of the two cupboard rooms for her, airing it out and making it suitable for a small girl. Modesty acts far too old for her age, but her unabashed delight at magic is a reminder of just how young she is. Credence looks at her always with intense pride.

Her shadow gets shaky, sometimes; Graves is keeping a close eye on that. Every time it happens, Modesty comes to be near Credence and hold his hand. But each time she pushes on with a smile.

“You can just tell they’re brother and sister,” Tina says to Graves in passing. Graves can’t argue with that. They really do have the same smile.

They eat dinner in the suitcase, that night, and it’s so like old times but so much better. Graves has Credence sitting on one side, with Modesty very close to Credence on his other. Young Theseus runs around after Dougal, who long-sufferingly looks after the child while the adults talk. Pickett is in Graves’ breast pocket, apparently snoozing. Newt and Theseus are having a fairly deep conversation, while James, Jacob, and Tina debate the merits of different kinds of chocolate, and Queenie makes quiet conversation with Modesty.

“This is good,” Credence says, leaning sideways into Graves’ arm.

“Better than good,” Graves says.

Credence sighs. “I don’t want to leave the suitcase again.”

“Unfortunately, we’ll have to.” Graves takes Credence’s hand and he smiles. “But not yet.”

“Can I be a Graves too?” Modesty asks, apropos of nothing.

Graves looks a bit askance. “Really?”

Modesty nods. “If you are,” she says. “I don’t want to be a Barebone anymore.”

Graves smiles at her, and glances briefly at Credence, who looks like he’s going to explode from happiness alone. “I’m happy to welcome you to the family. You’ll do the name credit.”

“Sure you don’t want to be a Scamander?” Theseus asks, butting into the conversation.

“Yes,” Modesty says, “you aren’t my brother.”

“Fair enough,” Theseus says. He nudges Newt with his elbow. “This one is stuck with me instead!”

It’s nearly ten o’clock before they all calm enough to speak seriously. Young Theseus is sound asleep, and Modesty has gone to bed, too. And then talk turns to the more serious things.

“What now?” James asks. “I thought it was bad enough when we were only looking for her…”

“The Confederation has no idea we have her,” Theseus says. “They can’t be allowed to know.”

Tina nods. “But Grindelwald will know we have her soon, if he doesn’t already.”

Newt leans forward. “He won’t show his hand just yet,” he says confidently. “I’m sure he didn’t quite anticipate our finding her so fast. And the last thing he needs is to show himself weak when the Confederation might take advantage.”

“So he won’t attack immediately,” James muses. “Still. Then what? Do we declare it publicly?”

“No!” Queenie exclaims. “That’d just put Modesty in more danger.”

Credence slides a sideways look at Graves. Graves has an inkling of what he’s about to say and, well, he was probably going to say it himself. “Well,” Credence says hesitantly, “Percival and I could always just run with her—”

“Don’t you dare pull that again,” Tina says, pointing at Credence. “Don’t you dare!”

Credence holds up his hands. “All right, all right!”

“He’s got one good point,” Jacob says slowly. “We can’t stay where we are. Got to get moving, and stay moving.”

There’s a long moment of thoughtful silence, and Graves sees Newt begin to smile. “Are you suggesting an adventure, Jacob?”

Jacob shrugs. “We’ve already got a plan,” he says. “Mr. and Mr. Graves are on a honeymoon and conveniently dragged the lot of us along. Why change now? We keep moving, keep Modesty safe from everybody while we figure out what to do next.”

“Déjà vu,” Tina says, shaking her head.

Queenie smiles brightly. “We’ll do just fine,” she says. “After all, we’ve got even more friends now than we did before.”

“Don’t get too optimistic,” Theseus warns. “What about a plan? We can’t just run off without an idea of what to do next!”

James shrugs. “Well, we could always attack Grindelwald, while he’s off-guard.”

“No,” Graves says. He straightens, looking around at them all. “For now, we keep moving as if there’s nothing wrong. We tour Europe. We wait on Seraphina to give the word that something’s changed and that we have allies in place. And when that happens…”

“When that happens,” Tina says, looking around at them all, “we finish this.”

Credence swallows hard. “We finish this,” he echoes.

“Once and for all,” Jacob says.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really on the downward climb to the end, folks. Hang in there. <3

It’s just like old times again when they leave Venice: Graves and Credence will have no idea where they’re going until they arrive.

“After all, no one will ask any questions if you two are in the suitcase while we travel,” Newt says, barely suppressing a suggestive smile.

“We aren’t going to be getting up to anything,” Graves informs him, arms folded. “We have Modesty to look after.”

That’s true. Credence and Modesty are up on the Thunderbird perch, talking, oblivious to the world and everyone around them. Graves isn’t sure Credence will even notice everyone else is gone.

“Trust us to pick a good destination,” James says, clapping Graves on the shoulder. “You’ll be shocked, if we go where I’m thinking.”

“Go, go,” Graves says. He pushes James toward the workshop. “You’ll miss your boat.”

Graves hears the quiet sound of conversation as he and Newt head into the workshop, and then the rattle of the ladder, and then nothing more. He listens at the door for a moment, and then turns back to Credence and Modesty. “Just us now,” he says.

Modesty nods. Without everyone else around, she seems to draw in on herself. She still looks a little sleep-tousled, hair askew as if she’d put it in braids herself. Had anyone offered to do them for her this morning? She sidles a little closer to Credence. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. He looks down at her. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Modesty says. She ducks her head. “I’m sorry.”

Graves comes over and Summons a bench with a casual wave of his hand. He sits down, looking up at them both, keeping a respectable distance. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Credence didn’t know, either, when he came to live with me.”

Modesty looks up sideways at Credence. “You lived in _sin_ with him, didn’t you.”

“It wasn’t sin unless you count the witchcraft,” Credence says firmly.

“I count it,” Modesty says.

“Well, I don’t,” Credence says, nudging her with his elbow.

Really Graves only ever thinks of the time with fondness. He’d tried so hard, learned tailoring charms to fix Credence’s clothes and learned more advanced cooking charms to feed him. They’d shared their first sort of intimacy back then. Although it had been so strange, Graves can’t help but smile.

“What was it like?” Modesty asks, kicking at the steps with her heels.

“He was very quiet,” Graves says. “Quieter than you, really. Polite. I had no idea what he might be, not until I began to teach him magic.”

Modesty’s eyes go very round. “ _You_ taught him magic.”

Credence smiles. “He did,” he says.

Before Modesty can ask another question, Credence silently holds out a hand. A fire dances above his palm, shifting slowly through all the colors of the rainbow. Graves recognizes it, of course: it’s the first spell he ever taught Credence to cast. He’d chosen it especially to act as a warm and bright counterpoint to the frigid darkness of the Obscurus. Apparently, the effect is strong. Though Modesty is more familiar with magic than Credence, she still stops moving and stares with wide eyes.

“Flaming Colors Charm,” Graves says, after Modesty’s marveled for a moment. Modesty looks at him, and in her face he sees a determination very like Credence’s. “A very pretty spell, but a harmless one that you might use as a party trick. But it’s simple, a combustion reaction, and doesn’t require too much focus or emotional effort.”

“But he’s casting it without a wand or incantation,” Modesty whispers.

“If you have enough control, you don’t have to use wands or words at all,” Graves says. He rises to his feet. “Your brother has more control than most wizards two or three times his age. He learned to cast spells by hand that most wizards can’t cast wandless even after a lifetime steeped in magic. Are you willing to try?”

Modesty’s face squinches in determination. “Yes, I am,” she says. “I want to try.”

“Come on, hop down,” Graves says. He offers a hand and helps her. Credence stays where he is and closes his hand, letting the fire go out. He folds his hands in his lap, watching.

Graves guides Modesty to the middle of the plaza. He remembers the first lesson he’d given to Credence, standing behind him so as not to distract. Some intuition tells Graves that Modesty will want to look him in the eye, so he kneels in front of her. “First, you need to breathe.”

“All right,” Modesty says. Her shoulders rise and fall for a moment, and then settle into the easy rhythm of breathing.

“Good,” Graves says. “Stay calm. Until you have more control over your magic, you must be calm when you cast a spell, never frightened or angry.”

“I understand,” Modesty says, in a slightly wobbly voice. “That makes…it…stronger, right?”

Her shadow does something interesting and Graves winces internally. “Anger makes the Obscurus stronger, yes,” he says. “You must control yourself.”

And Graves knows that control is a hard thing to come by, for any wizard with strong or wild power. But she’s young, not so much older than a student starting at Ilvermorny, the age when children learn to harness their magic. Moreover, she’s spent more time in the magical world than Credence did, observing how magic works. She has advantages.

“Okay,” she says. Her breathing is jerky again, and her shadow is swirling a bit.

“Center yourself with your breath,” Graves says. “Pick a rhythm and breathe deeply. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She nods, a quick bob of her head, and her shoulders lift and fall. But then she starts breathing deeply, and they relax. She stands a little taller.

“Very good, Modesty,” Graves says warmly, after a few moments have passed. “When you hold out your hand to summon the fire, you must _want_ to cast the spell with everything you have. An incantation alone won’t do a thing.”

Modesty holds out her hands, cupped together. “What’s the incantation?”

Graves gently cups her hands with his. Her hands are very small and frail in his, but she doesn’t shy away. “Repeat after me. Chromato Pyrorum.”

Modesty bites her lip, and then says with a terrible accent, “Chromato Pyrorum.”

Of course nothing happens.

“Try again,” Graves says gently. “It takes time.”

She repeats herself, this time with better pronunciation, the words falling from her mouth smoothly. Still, nothing happens. “I’m doing it wrong,” she says with visible frustration.

“You’re doing it exactly right,” Graves says. “Don’t be afraid. Your magic should be used, not locked away. You know the words, you have the power. All you have to do is _want it_.”

Modesty scowls at her hands, squares her shoulders, and says boldly, “Chromato Pyrorum!”

Over her hands a brilliant fire roars to life. It’s bigger than the controlled flame Credence produced earlier, beautiful, rolling through every color of the rainbow. Modesty’s face lights up in joy and astonishment, a smile so big that it goes from ear to ear. Graves smiles, too, watching her through the fire. After a moment or two, she closes her hands, and the fire goes out.

“I did it,” she says, staring at her hands. She turns away from Graves, looking utterly radiant. “I did magic. Credence, did you _see_?”

“I saw,” he says. His smile is heartbreakingly large, eyes brilliant and bright. “I saw.”

“I’m really a witch,” Modesty says.

Graves stands up. “You are,” he says. “And a powerful one, at that. Not many people could live so long as an Obscurial, or turn it so quickly to controlled magic.”

She looks up at him. “Can I do more?”

“We’ll have you master that charm first,” Graves says. “Your brother went a little too fast and learned a Levitating Charm that he used a touch too…exuberantly.”

“I helped you put the library back together,” Credence points out.

“Accidents should be avoided while we’re _in the suitcase_ ,” Graves says.

Modesty looks down at her hands again. “Oh,” she says softly. “So I have to…make it go away?”

“No!” Credence’s voice is perhaps a little too loud, but he practically jumps off the platform to get to Modesty. “You don’t make it go away. Not now, not ever again.”

“But I can’t do magic,” she says, eyes filling with tears.

Credence puts his hands on her shoulders, sitting her down on a bench and kneeling in front of her. “You can do magic,” he says. “I had to learn control, too. How not to set things on fire accidentally, or stick a fork in the ceiling, or…anything else.”

“But won’t that just make…it…stronger?” Modesty says. She bites her lip.

“It will make it fight you less,” Credence says. He glances up at Graves, who takes a deep breath but nods anyway. He doesn’t like this, but Modesty shouldn’t be afraid of her own shadow and Graves can’t think of a better way to help her. “Look.”

As smooth as water flowing in a stream, the Obscurus streams out of Credence’s skin. His eyes haze over white and it billows around them. The wavering swell of oily shadows is unnerving in the extreme, but Graves knows better than to be bothered about it. Modesty, too, has the sense not to make a sound or bolt.

The animals, what few are around, retreat. The Bowtruckles flee up the tree, Dougal makes himself scarce, none of the bigger creatures approach. They know, if not what the Obscurus is, that it is deadly dangerous.

The Obscurus, loosed in a pool of inky darkness across the plaza, does nothing threatening. It’s a lazy murmur of magic, and though it’s not active Graves feels very much like he’s standing at the feet of an unpredictable predator. Credence is utterly unbothered.

“See,” Credence says softly, “it’s less…angry, now. There’s no danger now. It’s not gone, it will never be gone, but I’ve mastered it. You can, too.”

Saying Credence has mastered his Obscurus is a blatant lie, or at the very least a warped version of the truth. Still, Graves decides to table the conversation about control until Modesty is not in the room. She doesn't need them arguing in front of her.

“Yours is so big,” Modesty whispers. She reaches out, fingertips trailing through one loose tendril of the thing. “Mine’s not like this. Not as big.”

That doesn’t sound quite right, but this isn’t exactly the moment to ask about Rome. Credence dismisses it with a shrug before Graves could have spoken, anyway. “It’s because I’m older.”

“Not only that,” Graves says. He looks around at the thing surrounding them. “Obscurials are made by pain inflicted on a child, not only by the suppression of magic.”

As he looks down, he can practically see the tumblers in Modesty’s head clicking into place. At once Graves regrets opening his mouth at all, but he can’t take the words back. She puts her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Credence,” she whispers as it comes together.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Credence says firmly. “She never thought you were a witch, and that’s what matters.”

“But I was,” Modesty says, “and I…”

Credence shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It’s my job to protect you. It always has been and it always will be.”

Modesty nods, sniffling, and when Credence tentatively opens his arms she slides right into them without a moment’s hesitation. The Obscurus fades, and Graves is glad of that. There won’t be more of that today. He steps away, then, and lets the two of them sort it out between siblings.

 

***

 

Graves catches up to Credence later, when Modesty has retreated to her room to take advantage of her newfound solitude and freedom. He’s in the temperate forest, staring up at the leaves, deep in thought when Graves comes up to him. Credence’s calm and happy expression fades a little, and Graves realizes he must look a little grim.

“Did you hear what she said?” Graves asks, without preamble.

“Which part?” Credence asks.

“The part about how her Obscurus isn’t as big as yours.”

Credence rubs his face. He sits down on the carpet of falling leaves and Graves sits beside him. “I heard,” he says.

“Could she level a city?” Graves asks.

“I don’t know, why don’t we set her loose in Vienna and find out,” Credence says acidly.

Graves gives him a hard look.

“Sorry,” Credence says. His shoulders hunch and he picks at the hem of his shirt. “ _I_ can level a city, we saw that in New York.”

“Yes,” Graves says. “Your Obscurus is the only one we have to measure damage.”

Credence sighs. “So hers probably wouldn’t do as much as mine, because she thinks it’s not as big as mine is.”

Graves picks up a skeleton leaf. It breaks between his fingers. “But how big is ‘big’? And when she says ‘smaller’ is it because she’s never seen the full extent of its power or because it really isn’t as powerful as yours?”

Credence shakes his head, staring up into the tree. “I don’t know,” he says. “Ask Newt, he’s the expert on this stuff.”

“Yes, but you live with it,” Graves says.  

“I don’t know anything,” Credence mutters. “I’m just the weapon. Point me and set me loose when we find Grindelwald, that’s what I’m good for.”

There’s that word again. Weapon. Like some kind of specter, haunting them. “Credence.”

“Look,” Credence says, a flash of anger in his eyes, “it doesn’t matter what I say about myself right now. We have Modesty and there  _still_ might be another Obscurial out there. Did we ever ask her if she was in Rome?”

“We didn’t,” Graves says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We should.”

“When we’re not in the case,” Credence says. “In the event of an explosion.”

Credence gets a half smile for his efforts there. It’s gallows humor at best and it's all Graves has the energy for. “You’re right about that.”

“Maybe sometimes I _do_ know what I’m talking about,” Credence says. He rips a fallen leaf into pieces, brushing the dust on his fingers off on the hem of his shirt. “What do we do if she isn’t the only one? If there’s someone else?”

“One step at a time,” Graves says. His bones hurt. It seems that every time they’re safe, something new arises. Will it never end?

Credence looks sideways at Graves. “Is it too much to ask to be held right now?”

“It’s never too much,” Graves says.

He wonders distantly, as Credence leans sideways to put his head on Graves’ shoulder, if Credence is doing this to seek comfort or to comfort Graves.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's worth your while to read "the detour," if you want some better understanding of what happens in this chapter. (Followed up with "the recruit," "the professor," and "the revelation," for the most complete picture.)

After a long while, a knock comes at the top of the suitcase. Tina pokes her head in. “You’re safe to come out,” she says cheerfully.

“Modesty too?” Credence asks.

“Yes. We’re in a hotel,” Tina says, and vanishes from sight.

Graves climbs out first, followed by Modesty. He gives her a hand as she steps out. She giggles nervously, looking back at the hole on the floor. “It’s weird,” she says.

“I’ve never gotten used to it,” Jacob says. “But then, we Muggles don’t ever get used to miracles.”

“Just magic,” Newt says, in the distracted tones of an experienced lecturer. Amazing, that Newt’s never been a professor but somehow sounds just like one. He’s sitting on the bed, playing with Young Theseus. “A science. We’ll someday discover the rules. Chromosomes, factors of inheritance—there have to be real mechanisms that guide magic, and someday someone will work it all out.”

Queenie smiles, sitting down next to him and handing Young Theseus a pile of blocks. “And you’ll be laughing and telling us all you told us so.”

“I’ll be too busy reading all about it to tease,” Newt says with a small smile.

Credence climbs out of the suitcase, assisted by Jacob on the last step. “Where are we?” he asks.

Jacob closes up the suitcase. “Innsbruck!”

Graves goes to the window and looks out. The city is pleasant, and a touch medieval. Church spires stand tall amid buildings with a distinct sense of age in every stone. It seems sometimes that Europe never actually stepped forward from the days of kings and knights and fairies hiding in dark forests. “Any particular reason?” he asks, looking back at the rest.

“It’s a good stop north of Venice,” James says. He’s by the door, out of the way in the increasingly crowded room. “There are ways up into Germany, north to Vienna, or east toward the Balkans.”

“And besides, there’s a wizarding community here,” Theseus says. He lounges against the wall beside the window. “We can put our ear to the ground, listen for rumors.”

“Do people know where we are?” Graves asks.

“I think we’re all right,” Tina says. “Theseus is a devious man. You don’t want to know the kinds of things he did to get around possible tails, Graves, it almost gave _me_ a conniption and I don’t know what it would do to you…”

Theseus smirks. “Sometimes to enforce the law you have to know how to break it.”

Tina snorts. She turns to Modesty and Credence. “How was the trip in the suitcase?”

Modesty comes over to stand half behind Credence, leaning against the window. “They started teaching me to use magic,” she says shyly.

Tina smiles. “You’re good at it, aren’t you?”

“She’ll be as good as Credence,” Graves says, giving Modesty a fond look.

Credence holds her hand. Modesty seems disinclined to further conversation, and Credence doesn’t press the issue. “What now?” he asks.

“Stay in Innsbruck a few days,” Jacob says, “then Newt wants to head up to…what was it now?”

“Seefeld in Tirol,” Newt says. “A very little town, very off the beaten path. No one will expect us to go there, mark my words.”

“Oh, yes?” Queenie asks, raising her brows. “And that’s the _only_ reason?”

Newt looks a bit sheepish. “Ah, it’s home to a native population of birds I’ve been meaning to study. Golden Healer Birds, very small, whose feathers go into potions to heal the sick. Not well studied, but I’d like to do a population survey or at least establish that we should perform one.”

Of course Newt thinks of these things in the middle of a war. Graves rolls his eyes, smiling faintly. “Very well,” he says. “And in the meantime?”

“Tower of Innsbruck,” James says promptly.

“The what?” Credence says, at the same moment that Queenie says, “Oh, lovely!”

“It’s a museum,” James explains. “Built by wizards as a part of Innsbruck University. It was made Unplottable and surrounded with Muggle-Repelling Charms, but was intended to be part of the University for wizarding students. After the Statute passed and wizards could no longer attend the Muggle University, it was turned into a repository of artifacts and made a museum.”

Graves nods thoughtfully. He’s heard of it, but never came to Innsbruck to see it. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing to take a look, while we’re here.”

“What about Modesty?” Tina asks suddenly. “We can’t leave her alone, and—”

“We can take her out,” Queenie says firmly. “We ran around with Credence in public for _ages_ when we went west with him, and besides, if Modesty will let me, I can make her some new clothes and get her all put together so no one will ever recognize her.”

“New clothes?” Modesty asks, tilting her head.

Queenie smiles. “Of course,” she says. “The best I can do.”

“She’s good,” Credence and Tina chorus.

Modesty looks up at Credence. He nods, and Modesty takes a deep breath. “All right,” she says, “You can do it.”

 

***

 

They handle the tailoring session the next morning before they all go out. Queenie handles the tailoring, and Credence stays with her for safety. Everyone else is asked to go out and wait, which means they have to entertain themselves. A regular game of poker is suggested by Jacob, but Graves has to cut things off before they get too interesting. “Credence and I spoke with Modesty last night,” he says.

“And?” Tina asks. She’s playing with Young Theseus, but her eyes are sharp, watchful.

“Modesty,” Graves says, the words coming out almost reluctantly, “thinks that her Obscurus is smaller than Credence’s.”

There’s a great, pregnant pause.

Finally, Jacob says, “Wasn’t the one in Rome bigger than his?”

“Yes,” Theseus says.

“Damn.” Jacob rubs his eyes. “Well. Never saw that one coming.”

“Another?” Newt’s eyes narrow a bit. “I only knew of two—three, now—surviving Obscurials.”

“Three?” James asks.

Newt nods, fumbling in his bag. “I copied the notes I took back then so I could use them with the Confederation, though I didn't talk about her specifically because I thought that might be unwise,” he says. He produces a small folder and opens it, riffling through papers. “The Sudanese Obscurial…hm.”

“Explain it, Newt,” Graves prompts after a moment of expectant silence.

“Right!” Newt sends an apologetic smile all around. “Lost in thought, sorry. She was eight years old. Muggles were holding her and I did manage to get her away from them, but I wasn’t as experienced then. I tried to separate the Obscurus from her, it would have killed her to keep using herself up like that, but it was too complicated. She died, even though I got the Obscurus.”

Tina purses her lips, pushing a small rolling horse toward Young Theseus. “I remember seeing it when Grindelwald interrogated us,” she says. “And he said…” Tina stops talking and stares at Newt with a look of dawning horror that all at once he mirrors.

“What?” Jacob demands, looking between them.

“He said,” Newt says slowly, “that the Obscurus was useless without the host.”

“I thought Newt would break the shackles and punch him,” Tina says with a small smile. “He was just magnificent, I thought he was facing _you_ down, Graves, and I’d have been shaking in my shoes! And Newt absolutely wasn’t.”

Papers shuffles as Newt tucks them all away in his folder again. “I asked him what on earth he’d use it for,” he says. “He never really answered that. But he took her with him, all the same.”

It feels like there’s an answer here, something just beyond Graves’ reach. “He must have wanted to use it as a weapon,” he says. That word again. James shakes his head, obviously thinking the same thing. “But you told him it was impossible, so he decided to use children instead.”

Tina scowls. “He was trying to break Modesty, then. I was wondering why he’d be so stupid as to let someone hit an Obscurial in public…”

“You know,” Jacob breaks in, “there’s a piece we’re all forgetting.”

Theseus folds his arms. “As if this isn’t bad enough,” he mutters.

Jacob ignores him, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. “You remember when he first tried to get Queenie to spy for him right?”

“How can I ever forget,” Tina says dryly. “My baby sister, a spy for Grindelwald.”

“Those papers she saw,” Jacob says.

Graves thinks back furiously. Yes: Queenie had paid a visit to one of Grindelwald’s strongholds and had, if only for a moment, seen some of his personal papers. “With the impossible calculations?”

“Yeah,” Jacob says. “Just think about it. Newt, we never saw that Obscurus again after we broke out of MACUSA.”

Newt stops in the act of tucking away the folder. “No,” he says softly. “We didn’t. I thought he would have disposed of her.”

“He would have kept an asset like that, 'useless' or not,” Graves says.

“And how do you know?” James asks.

Graves gives him a hard look. “Because it’s what I would do,” he says.

With the expression on James’ face, Graves suddenly wonders if he and James are still talking about the Sudanese Obscurial, or about someone else.

There’s a moment when the only sound is the conversation of passing No-Majs in the lobby of the hotel. No one is paying them the slightest bit of attention. Jacob looks deeply thoughtful, Newt disturbed.

Graves thought that he had let go of the idea of the Obscurus as a weapon, that his earliest impressions of their potential had faded. Did he? Or did he bury it, redirect it, somehow encourage Credence…to make himself into the weapon he’s become?

“So,” Theseus says at last, “what in Merlin’s name are we going to do about this?”

“Write to Picquery,” Tina says promptly. “Give her a warning.”

Theseus flashes her a grin. “I have to check in at Gringotts to see if I’ve got a letter waiting, anyway,” he says. “We can stop by an owlery to get a bird sent.”

“And that’s all we can do?” James asks.

“Unless you want to challenge Grindelwald and all his forces, without knowing where they are or how strong they are, with no backup…I think that’s all we can do,” Graves says.

It’s a little difficult to lift their mood after that conversation, but they manage. Jacob starts teaching them No-Maj card games to them in the hotel’s lobby. Theseus takes to them like a fish to water, but it’s Tina who wins most often, by what she freely admits is pure luck. It’s a welcome distraction from what they’d just discussed.

When Queenie, Credence, and Modesty come downstairs, Graves is happy to see Modesty looking very well. There’s healthy color in her cheeks and her hair is done in ringlets, which already makes her look completely different from the pallid and tightly-braided girl they met in Venice. Her dress is perfect for a girl of her age, spring green with a rounded collar and a sash, and her shoes are shiny and appear entirely new.

“You three make quite the picture,” James says, standing with a smile as they come in.

“A good one?” Credence asks, looking down at Modesty.

“A wonderful one,” Tina says.

Queenie gives Graves a subtle nod: she’s heard everything they’ve talked about. He’s sure she has thoughts of her own, but when he thinks that she shakes her head. “Ain’t got anything that you all didn’t discuss,” she says softly.

They don’t keep talking about it, especially not in front of Credence and Modesty. There’s the distinct sense that everyone is handling Credence with kid gloves, but, preoccupied with Modesty, he notices nothing. Newt puts the suitcase and Young Theseus into the little red wagon, and they set off into the bright morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By 1932, it’s quite plain that an educated, science-minded man like Newt would be aware of the existence of chromosomes and their probable role in inheritance. You can thank Maiasaura (ornithoscelida) for inspiring THIS particular mini-tangent! Obviously in 1932, the exact mechanisms of magic wouldn’t be known—but rest assured, somewhere in her fic the answer is present! 
> 
> Recalling that this is a continent on the cusp of genocide and war, it is important to note that fascism in Austria had not yet begun to take hold. Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss, the man responsible for the initial skid toward fascism, didn’t take power until May 20, 1932. The First Austrian Republic was still very much in power at the time the Suitcase Family arrived in Innsbruck. And shit wouldn’t properly hit the fan in Austria until 1933 when the Parliament was dissolved…and it would get worse in 1934 when Dollfuss was assassinated by Nazis. But just at this moment…that’s not something about which the crew needs to be concerned.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extremely lighthearted chapter. I think we all could use a break!

Though the hotel is a Muggle hotel, within two streets they’re in the wizarding quarter of the city, and amid familiar wonders. Modesty looks like she’s trying not to stare until she notices Credence and Jacob gaping unashamedly, and then gives up and stares right along with them. Graves just smiles at them, and holds Credence’s hand a little tighter.

Innsbruck has a bustling post office, owls coming and going in flights that should be making the Muggles impossibly suspicious. Graves thinks the American method of pigeons as message-carriers is better, but he can’t deny the visual spectacle of the owls. While the rest go off ahead, Graves waits for Tina to dash off a note to Picquery. She pays as much as she can for the fastest owl they have.

“There’s that done,” Tina mutters, stepping out to rejoin Graves. “I just hope she handles it well.”

“Somehow, I think she will,” Graves says. “She learned a good lesson, with Credence.”

They catch up quickly. The crowds mean no one is moving very fast, and no one seems in much of a hurry to go anywhere. There’s plenty of chance to stare, and even the wizards have to shake their heads. People here, even more so than in wizarding England, dress in robes and gowns of bombastic style.

“We stick out more for dressing like Muggles than we would if we’d gone out in robes,” Theseus says in an undertone to Graves.

Graves looks down at his tailored No-Maj-style suit. “I’d rather stick out than look like something out of a Muggle film,” he says unapologetically.

There are shops in this part of town, bookstores and an art gallery, an architect, tailors, stores for potion ingredients, and more. New York lacked a proper wizarding district, so being here is a welcome treat for Graves. For the English wizards, it seems to be a reminder of their own Diagon Alley, and there’s much nostalgic sighing.  

Jacob begs a halt at a broomstick emporium. He, Credence, and Theseus—the only ones who care about sports—discuss brooms and Quidditch with enthusiastic Austrian amateur Quidditch players. Everyone else goes across the street to a pastry shop, where by unilateral agreement they overindulge Modesty and Young Theseus with sweets.

James vanishes at one point while they’re stopped on a street corner debating the merits of letting Graves loose in a book shop for a while. When he comes back, he simply shakes his head at questions: “I went to put my ear to the ground for rumors,” he says. “Might as well, while we’re here. If anything turns up, I’ll tell you all right away.”

Theseus calls a halt at the branch of Gringotts Bank. “Leta will have sent a letter, I’m sure,” he says, and gives Newt a sympathetic look. “If you don’t want to go in, I’ll understand.”

“No,” Newt says, with a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

Graves gives Newt a brief and sympathetic pat on the shoulder. He’d had the situation with Leta Lestrange explained to him by Queenie on the sly a while ago. She’d been Newt’s last great love, and the only person he’d ever cared about as much as he cares about Tina. His expulsion from Hogwarts had killed their friendship and blossoming romance, and Newt has never quite gotten over it.

The accountants of the bank are goblins; Credence looks awkward, and keeps staring. Graves forgot that he’s never really had experience with them. Even Jacob has been to Gringotts and holds an account there. They glare back and Credence finally ducks his head and watches the floor instead, visibly embarrassed of himself.

As it turns out, there is a letter form Leta waiting for Theseus. He pays the goblin two Galleons for the trouble of the magical delivery that brings the letter to its intended recipient and they go outside to read it in a secluded corner. Theseus reads it first, and then passes it around.

 

_Theseus:_

_I can safely say that England is a right mess. You’d never know it from the Prophet’s reports, but the Twenty-Eight are in an uproar. I have been officially ejected from the Lestrange family because I voiced opposition to the idea of sending more of my cousins to join Grindelwald’s forces on the continent. It was no great blow: the Shacklebolts have (finally) remembered that they too are my family. There’s no family manor, but I don’t think I could stomach such a thing again…_

_But you’re not asking for my maudlin ramblings. In answer to the questions posed by your friend Picquery: yes, I have found support for our side of the cause. The Weasleys, ever-impulsive Gryffindors, champ at the bit; the Abbotts have promised support their support, loyal to the cause of the “right”. The Longbottoms are firmly in the camp of fighting Grindelwald and have been for years, as you well know from your friendship with Sebastian, but they are now constrained by Sebastian’s own position in the recalcitrant Ministry and may not be able to offer real fighting support. The Fawleys have entirely too much infighting; their ridiculous Minister will not commit to a single damn thing, but dear Helen has finally convinced Menelaus to join the campaign directly and they will come with me when called._

_The Slughorns, to the surprise of all, have publicly declared their opposition to Grindelwald despite their staunch belief in blood purity. The shock nearly killed old Roland Lestrange. Unfortunately he is as hale and hearty as ever; I would have set off fireworks at his funeral and invited every blood traitor in the country._

_You will not have heard, but between Sebastian Longbottom and Marcus Slughorn (new head of the Department of International Magical Co-Operation), Fawley is facing heavy internal pressure to change his stance. I cannot do anything on that front, but I can guarantee that our activities are protected, and that—should things go rightly—we will find England on our side in the final account, whether or not they send true support._

_So I offer you this: eleven sons and daughters of the brave Weasley line, nine Shacklebolts with more courage than sense, six Abbotts who understand the real meaning of loyalty to the blood, one Longbottom who comes despite the wishes of her family, two Fawleys who go against the direct orders of their Minister, and Marcus’ son Horace who is bold indeed to come and join on our side._

_And, of course, a single Lestrange._

_We are ready, Theseus. The call will come soon. And when it does, we stand ready to fight, for our only honor is our loyalty to our blood, and that blood is the red blood of all of us who dare to spit in the face of tyrants._

_Leta Lestrange_

 

“She’s certainly changed a lot,” Newt murmurs, when he’s read the letter. “I can’t imagine the Leta I knew doing…this.”

“The person she was in school certainly isn’t the person she is now,” Theseus says. He sets fire to the letter and they watch it burn to ash in silence.

Graves finally shakes himself. “So we know that Picquery’s call is going out,” he says. “That’s more than I expected to hear of, and better off, considering. With the backing of England’s pure-blood families…at least those well regarded in the public eye, we stand some chance after it’s all said and done.”

 

***

 

Between all the stops and starts and their late morning, they reach the University around noon, and everyone is half starved. They stop at a Muggle restaurant and devour hearty Tyrolean food, dumplings and potatoes and bacon and cheese. It’s all delicious, and by the way Modesty eats it she hasn’t had anything so filling in some time.

Graves does take care to pull her aside before they go into the Tower of Innsbruck, though, to check on her. “Are you doing all right?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Very sudden changes,” Graves says.

Modesty pauses and looks down. “I know,” she says. “But it’s so much better than things were before, and…is it bad that I’m okay?”

“Not at all,” Graves says. “I’m glad you’re all right. I only hope that you’ll have some time to sort things out, when all this is over.”

They rejoin the others on the steps of the Tower. It’s a huge spire, frankly ridiculous, the kind of thing that should have Rapunzel at the top or something like that. Graves internally heaves a sigh: why must European wizards be so melodramatic?

“The same reason you wear that coat, honey,” Queenie says in an undertone.

“This coat,” Graves protests with dignity, “is _stylish_.”

"It hasn't been in style for at least three years," Queenie points out.

Graves scoffs. "Good clothes never go out of style."

Everyone else ignores them. “This place is one long fairy tale,” Jacob says.

“Now wait one second,” Theseus says, looking at Jacob, “how are you seeing this? It’s got Muggle-Repelling Charms all over it!”

“A lot of really clever spellwork, courtesy of your brother,” Tina says with a laugh.

“You mean illegal spells,” James says.

Newt makes an offended sound. “Well, Jacob should get to see everything we do!”

Modesty stares up at the top of the tower. “Still not as big as a skyscraper,” she says.

“I like this more, though,” Credence says.

“You like something?” Modesty looks askance.

Credence stares down at her. “What?”

“You never used to like _anything_ ,” Modesty says. “It was always…”

“You’re allowed to like things,” Credence says, filling in the silence.

“Oh,” Modesty says. She bites her lip, and then turns toward the Tower, hair bouncing, looking as if she hasn’t a care in the world. “Let’s go in!”

Queenie pauses by him as they go up the path toward the base of the tower. “She’s really thinking on it,” she says. “Just doesn’t want to do it in front of us.”

“That, I understand,” Credence says. He sighs, and Graves takes his hand again.

They have to pay to get in at the door, Austrian money which James with a long-suffering sigh provides from a coin purse. “It is not your fault that none of you have the sense to understand currency conversion. Though I did expect better of you,” he says, throwing a wicked smirk at Theseus.

“Come off it, you twit,” Theseus says, rolling his eyes.  

Credence and Graves naturally fall to the back of the group. Modesty has taken a liking to Queenie and there isn’t a person in the world who doesn’t like Jacob, so she walks between them, holding their hands. It’s sweet.  

Upon entry to the center hall, they’re greeted by a tall statue of Merlin in black basalt. He doesn’t move, but his eyes seem to follow them. There are two doors to the left and two the right, and a flight of stairs going up to the second floor. Graves looks up and he nods in appreciation: a globe, a perfect rendering of the Earth, hangs suspended in the air over them, slowly rotating.

They aren’t the only visitors to the Tower: there are scholarly types making their way upstairs to what the curators tell them are the collections of grimoires and historic books, artists clearly meaning to study the great works, and mere visitors. Rather than taking an official tour, they elect to wander on their own, stopping where fancy takes them.

On the first floor is an exhibition hall of styles of wizarding dress from around the world. Suits of armor enchanted in various ways, medieval costume, Chinese robes, and so on and so forth. Not everything in the museum is enchanted, of course: some objects are simply curiosities that are associated with magic in some way.

A display of enchanted weapons has Graves mildly enraptured, and his enthusiasm summons up enthusiasm from everyone else. Beyond swords and common weapons, there’s a ridiculous number of polearms. There are ranseurs, halberds, tridents; partisans, corseques, naginata, glaives, and spears; and others.

“Somewhere in the world, there has to be someone wanting one of these and unable to find it because they’re all here,” Tina comments.

In another hall there’s a standing stone from England, apparently from an ancient Druidic circle; beside it is a panel from an Egyptian tomb and on the other side a standing stone from an Aztec temple, donated by wizards of the respective countries. There’s a display of jewelry, all in heavily warded cases, enchanted or made by magic or simply historic, crowns and necklaces and bracelets of a beauty that makes Queenie’s eyes turn to saucers. There’s one piece in particular that makes everyone severely nervous: a tall tiara with chased geometric and piscine reliefs. It makes Graves’ skin crawl, and after seeing it they leave the hall immediately.

The second floor has many more treasures. This is the floor of Natural History, and Newt is so excited he almost can’t stop moving. Here there are mounts of magical creatures, many of them; a huge Erumpet, a Nundu, and so on. They don’t measure up to the real thing, so the general consensus goes, but it’s interesting. There are also displays of magical plants and of fish and shells and so on, which is fascinating since Newt doesn’t have many of these. Modesty in particular likes these, and she dawdles with Newt as the rest go up to the third floor, which contains the galleries of art.

James is entirely lost in the sculpture hall, and they leave him to his entertainment. There’s a gallery of magical paintings, and one of various art objects. The paintings are what draw Credence and Graves, while Queenie and Jacob point out that they’d like to go see the art objects.

“I could stand a stroll among the canvases,” Theseus says thoughtfully.

“So could I, I guess,” Tina says.

Queenie smiles. “I’ll take Young Theseus, if you like,” she says. "He'll be bored with all the paintings." Tina passes over Young Theseus after giving the boy a kiss on the cheek. Queenie and Jacob depart with the child, holding hands again.

The painting gallery is quite long, with many pieces. Graves and Credence make their way down one side, while Tina and Theseus stroll down the other. This side of the gallery is taken up with art of classical subjects. There’s one of Circe and Odysseus, where the main figures are not moving but every other figure constantly transfigures from a human to an animal and back. Jason, Medea, and Glauce are shown, with Medea as a triumphant victor over the cowering No-Majs. That one leaves a bit of a bad taste in Graves’ mouth, but he can’t deny the magical compulsion of her eyes.

There’s a painting of Medusa covered by a special glass. This, the placard says, is because the painting is enchanted in such a way that viewers are Petrified by her gaze. “Several victims are on display in the Hall of Sculpture,” Credence reads, and looks horrified.

About halfway down the wall, there’s an arresting painting of Merlin and Nimue. It’s beautiful, and Graves finds it a little unusual. “She usually wears…a little less clothing,” he says, studying the figures. Old white-bearded Merlin looks in besotted adoration at Nimue, who is a blushing young woman. They hold hands, frozen in time.

“Oh?” Credence asks. "Who are they, anyway?"

“Legendarily, Nimue is a woman who seduced Merlin and convinced him to teach her magic,” Graves explains. “Opinions vary on whether or not she tricked him and locked him in a tomb to sleep until it’s unlocked or whether she constructed the tomb at his request, but either way, she walked away with all the secrets. Merlin's been sleeping, hidden away ever since.”

“A student who seduced the teacher,” Credence says thoughtfully. He aims a small smirk Graves’ way. “A familiar story.”  

Behind them, Credence hears Tina laughing. “Riding a lobster!” she exclaims. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” Theseus says.

“The lobster’s better rendered than the woman,” Tina says.

Theseus laughs. “But look here: what is this?”

“It’s a blue blob.”

“Says ‘reclining nude’.”

“If that’s a human, then I’m the lobster…”

Graves shakes his head as he and Credence move on. “Clearly we got the good side,” he says.

“I don’t really care for the modern art,” Credence says. “Shall we go on?”

They exit the gallery and find the others nowhere in sight. Tina and Theseus are still in the hall, poring over a particularly abstract piece, and it looks as though Credence and Graves have been left on their own. They head up to the fourth floor, where the library of rare books is kept, and Graves is just thinking that maybe they can spend some peaceful time reading when Credence pulls him into a small hallway, where a broom closet waits.

“What are you doing?” Graves asks.

“Finding us some privacy.”

“ _Credence—_ ”

“Alohomora,” Credence mutters, rapping the knob with his wand and pushing the door open. He crowds Graves inside and he goes with a heavy sigh, letting it happen.

As the door shuts, Graves says, “Credence, we are _grown men_ and you’re acting like a teenager who can’t keep his hands off a girl!”

“What better chance to have some fun?” Credence asks with a wink.

This is utterly wild. “There are plenty of better—mmph!”

Credence shuts Graves up by the simple expedient of a kiss. Acquiescing to the inevitable, Graves melts. Credence is going after this with intensity and determination that staggers the mind. Once he clears the hurdle of this being a broom closet, Graves has no objections to this kind of treatment. 

And just as Graves is getting comfortable, someone knocks on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There used to be a widespread FB headcanon that American wizards, for reasons of secrecy, prefer to use pigeons rather than owls. I’m not sure how commonly accepted that is anymore, but I’ve certainly kept it around!
> 
> The polearms are a reference to this Order of the Stick comic: http://www.giantitp.com/comics/oots0136.html
> 
> Yes, that tiara is a piece of self-referential nonsense. Go read “The Thing in the Mirror” to see what it’s all about. No, Credence isn’t an eldritch abomination in this fic. Hush, why would you ever think that. Why would I ever do something that self-referential and weld that many unrelated stories together. 
> 
> /sarcasm
> 
> The Museum of Bad Art provided inspiration for the lobster.
> 
> As for making out in a closet, here’s a_drift’s reaction to that: “peRCIval fucKEN graVES are yOU fiftEEN yeARs oLD”


	45. Chapter 45

“Are you fifteen years old?” Jacob asks through laughter, when they tell the story that night at dinner.

Somehow, Credence maintains his composure. “If you and Queenie had spotted that closet first, I’m sure you’d have done the same thing.”

Queenie nearly spits out her wine. “Credence!”

“He’s got a point,” Jacob says with a shrug, and Queenie blushes fiercely.

“Don’t listen to this,” Graves says to Modesty.

She shrugs. “It’s fine. My name’s Modesty, not Chastity…”

“You’re thirteen years old,” James says firmly. “And this conversation ends here.”

The rest of dinner passes without incident. They plan, the next day, to pay a visit to some of the other historic sites, even the Muggle ones. That night is a touch strenuous for Credence and Graves, though, and Graves ends up sending a note that he and Credence won’t be joining everyone else for their tour of the city that day. It’s very good to just lie there together, calling for room service when they’re hungry and dozing together.

“It has been the worst three weeks of my life,” Graves announces, around four in the afternoon when they’re both reading in bed, “and this day has gone a long way toward making up for it.”

Credence looks up from the book in his hands. It’s one of those Graves has been trying to get him to read for ages, some romance or another. “It really has,” he says. “I don’t know exactly where we go from here, but…”

Graves looks out the window. “I was thinking about the time on our way to San Francisco that we talked about what our pasts should have been like,” he says.

He hears the smile in Credence’s voice. “I remember that.”

“I think I made a mistake, when we talked about that,” Graves says. He looks back at Credence and the expression on his face makes Graves’ heart twist a little bit. It’s so soft, distant and happy. He wishes Credence could look like that all the time, as though there’s nothing at all weighing on him. “I didn’t say what I should have.”

“You told me a whole new history so I could be happy,” Credence says. “That’s enough.”

“I should have said that I was glad things were the way they were,” Graves says. He considers the fact that he’s getting maudlin, and decides he doesn’t care. “All of it, start to finish. It made you what you are, and made me what I am. If things had been different, we would be different men. I imagine a world where you gave up after it all instead of fighting back, or where I gave up and joined Grindelwald, and…I’m in awe of what we accomplished.”

“We’re lucky…the fact that we’re alive is almost a miracle, Percival.”

“I know,” he says. “Where we are now, where we started…it’s two different worlds.”

“I wouldn’t blame you for walking away,” Credence says softly. “I could get you killed. Look at who I am, even now. What I am. I’m a weapon. I’m not safe.”

Graves takes Credence’s hand. It’s high time he started making up for anything he did or said that pushed Credence to this point. “Let me remind you of what you told me. Remember…if you can’t see the things about yourself that make me love you, then you need to get a better mirror.”

“I don’t need one,” Credence says, eyes getting a little watery. “In case you missed it, you’re my better mirror.”

Graves watches Credence intently. There’s no sign of the anger, the pain, that’s marked so many of Credence’s days lately. It’s just Credence. The most important person in Graves’ world. That’s who he is, no matter what else he may be. “I don’t know, and I can never know, all of the challenges you face simply to walk through a day. But I am not afraid of that. I know who I married, and so long as you let me stay by you, that would be enough.”

 

***

 

They’re on their third full day in Innsbruck when something finally happens.

Credence and Graves have taken a leave of absence to explore a bookstore—or, rather, Graves is exploring the bookstore. Credence is merely following in his wake, listening to the technical discussion of shelving systems and the practicalities of actually running a store.

At a small stand of pamphlets Credence stops. Graves turns and sees him looking in some shock, and joins him to look. There before them is a slim pamphlet bearing…Credence’s pen name.

Credence picks it up and opens it. Graves reads over his shoulder:  

 

_…allein die Idee, daß unser kulturelles Erbe sich nicht auf gemeinsame Wurzeln zurückführen lässt, ist absurd. Die No-Majs (die amerikanische Bezeichnung für alle Nicht-Zauberer, Anm. d. Übersetzerin) erinnern sich an uns, wenn auch nur in Geschichten und Sagen; wir aber kennen sie gewiß. Noch in diesen modernen Zeiten sind unsere Häuser, unsere Straßen, ja, sogar die Büros unserer Regierung auf Fundamenten gebaut, die die No-Majs vor uns errichtet haben. Obwohl wir uns an das Geheimhaltungsabkommen halten, ist es an der Zeit, uns von der Vorstellung zu lösen, unsere Existenz sei von der der Nicht-Zauberer so unabhängig, daß uns die politischen Entwicklungen und sozialen Veränderungen in der nicht-magischen Welt nicht beträfen…_

 

“Which one is this?” Graves asked, a little floored himself by seeing this here. He can only imagine how stunned Credence is.

Credence studies the title. “I think…is this the one about infrastructure? Maybe?”

“Er. Which one about infrastructure?”

“According to this date, it’s the one about how our entire society is built on things Muggles constructed.” Credence shakes his head. “I didn’t see this coming.”

Graves takes the paper and goes back to the store clerk. “Mind translating?” he asks.

The store clerk looks it over and nods. “One of the Anonymous Shadow’s,” she says. “Good choice, that.” She starts to read off the pamphlet and Credence looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, hearing the words.  

Out in the sunlight, Credence tucks the pamphlet in his pocket. He looks at Graves, still wide-eyed from shock. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

“I can,” Graves says. “‘Our homes, our streets, the very offices of our government are built upon the foundations of No-Maj creation.’ That’s a good line, no matter the language. Then again, you are a virtuoso writer.”

“For God’s sake, Percival!” Credence says, laughing.

“Quite the merry couple you make,” James says, rising from the bench where he’d been sitting outside the bookstore.

Graves smiles. “He’s good for my mood,” he says. “I thought you were off with Tina and Newt?”

James nods. “I was,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets. “But something came up. You remember how I told you that I was putting my ear to the ground for rumors?”

All levity instantly drains away. “Yes,” Credence says. “Did it work?”

“Did it ever,” James says grimly. He gestures down the sidewalk. “Let’s get away from…people.”

Credence and Graves give hurried chase. At a small park up the road, James leads them to a spot well away from other people who might interfere. “I put out a call for people to contact me in the event that they have information related to the movements of Grindelwald and his followers,” he says. He pulls a letter out of his jacket and hands it to Graves.

Graves holds it gingerly. “Before I open this envelope, would you mind telling me just what to expect? How bad is the news?”

James sighs heavily. “It’s not bad, just…unexpected.”

Credence looks over Graves’ shoulder as he opens the envelope, seal is already broken. There’s a few lines of writing in a neat, elegant hand and purple ink. “Who sent this again?” Graves asks, glancing up from the paper.

“A contact of mine in Veyshnoria,” James says. “My friend Yuliya. Phenomenal Auror, my partner when I was Consul General for the country. She’s been keeping tabs on Grindelwald supporters in the country who’d like to see the Statute blown open there.”

“Wouldn’t they be in the most danger?” Credence asks, aghast.

“Think about it,” Graves says heavily. “If there was a catastrophe, it would be open war with No-Majs overnight. The wizarding world would suddenly see that Grindelwald was right. They’d have to act.”

Credence takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “So what did she say?”

 

_Dearest James,_

_I wish that I could send you better news, or at least the bad news you want to hear. But all I can say is this: there is no way that Grindelwald could have brought a weapon into this country. His known supporters in the Ministry were rounded up this week and imprisoned, most subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss, and the borders have been closed in advance of predicted disaster. I wish that there were a weapon here, that might be easier. All that we think we can do is to make sure that we are prepared in case of an attack, for we are terribly vulnerable and if there is any country which stands to lose it all in the event of a war it is Veyshnoria._

_I don’t know when or if I will be able to write to you again. Please do not contact me until I send you an all clear. I wish you the best of luck, wherever you are, and whatever you’re doing as you hunt this weapon._

_Your friend,_

_Yuliya_

 

“What a disaster,” Graves says, folding the letter and handing it back to James.

“Rome must have scared the Ministry witless,” James says, tucking the letter carefully away. “I know that’s no great news, but still. The other Obscurial, if they’re out there at all and it isn’t Modesty, isn’t in Veyshnoria or anywhere else Yuliya would have heard about. Counts Russia right out, at the very least. And things are getting worse.”

“Has Picquery answered the owl?” Credence asks.

James shakes his head wearily as they make their way back toward the main streets. “We’ve heard nothing at all. Tina apparently told her we were going through Seefeld, though, so a reply might be waiting for us there already.”

They make their way up the busy street, ignored by everyone around them. “Does that mean we’re leaving soon?” Credence asks.

“I think so,” James says.

Graves sighs and runs a hand through his hair, disarranging it. “Every single time that we have the chance to take a break, something reminds me of the urgency facing us.”

“We are in the middle of a war,” James says, soft and gentle and grim. “Even if it is, as you said yourself, slow and secret. Moves have to be made.”

“We’re not long from the end, are we,” Credence says.

James shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Things are moving forward quicker, and if Veyshnoria has closed their borders, there have to be threats we aren’t hearing about. We don’t have ears in the Confederation except Ya Zhou, and it’s not as though we’re in perpetual contact with her…”

Graves looks up the street to where their friends are waiting. It looks like Newt and Tina have finally caught up with the others as they stand on a street corner, waiting. Queenie waves when she sees them and Graves lifts a hand in reply.

Before they quite reach the others and are still out of earshot, Credence looks at James and Graves. “Please don’t say anything about this to Modesty,” he half-begs.

“We won’t,” James says, briefly squeezing his shoulder.

Looking at Modesty’s happy, smiling face, Graves wonders how long that happiness will last for her this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to almostannette for the translation! She went out of her way to ensure that things made damn good sense, and were period-accurate to boot! The original English text: 
> 
> “…the very idea that our heritage is separate is preposterous. The No-Majs remember us, albeit in stories and legends; we, certainly, know them. Even in this latter day, our homes, our streets, the very offices of our government are built upon the foundations of No-Maj creation. Though we maintain the Statute of Secrecy, it is high time that we give up on this pointless crusade of believing ourselves so wholly separate as to be unaffected by the movements of the non-magical world…”
> 
> See “the veyshnoria case” to remind yourself of Yuliya and James’ relationship to her.


	46. Chapter 46

It’s not a long hop to Seefeld when they depart Innsbruck. They take a train, of course, though it’s a journey of barely an hour: still, Modesty has to stay in the case until they’re aboard. Then she spends the whole trip with her nose against the windowpane, staring at the scenery going by.

There’s only one short conversation on the subject of the potential disaster staring them in the face. They quietly inform the others while Modesty plays with Young Theseus, and Tina looks angry. “If everything seems to be going well, you’ve overlooked something,” she mutters. “I guess things were just going too well.”

But that’s all for the melancholy, at least for a while. Newt turns to a lecturer and delivers a long informative speech about the Golden Healer Birds they’re seeking, including some of the Muggle fairy tales which feature them. “They aren’t in the first or second volume of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, only because I didn’t have enough information on them,” he says. “The first volume was mostly concerned with the dangerous ones people were trying to exterminate, the second was rare species, and I suppose this is to be the endangered ones.”

“Why would anyone hunt a little bird?” Modesty asks.

“The same reason that kingfishers are going away in China, or close enough,” Newt says. “The feathers are beautiful and people use them too much. In this case, they’re good in healing potions and so on, and so their feathers are harvested not by collecting fallen feathers but by killing the bird…”

He lapses into silence, staring out the window, and Tina quietly takes his hand.

“Population survey does seem in order,” Theseus says heartily. “And then surely people will listen to you and do better.”

“They do that sometimes,” Newt says with a shrug. “Other times…”

“Don’t focus on the other times right now, honey,” Queenie says.

Jacob nods. “How are we going to do the survey?” he asks.

And that makes Newt brighten, at least a little, and he launches into a discussion of how they’ll go about performing the survey without hurting the birds. Graves tunes it out. He’s sure he’ll hear it again later, and just now he’s a too concerned about what they’re facing in the near future.

He doesn’t mention his thoughts as they disembark the train. There seems no sense in it, generally, so he keeps his mouth shut and his shoulder firmly in line with Credence’s. It’s not too hard to forget the troubles, though, when he’s walking through the absolutely delightful town that is Seefeld. No one, not even James or Newt, has been here, so the delight is widely shared.

It’s the most quintessentially European town that Graves has seen yet, the kind of town he’d expected that they would see across their entire trip and hadn’t quite yet. The sidewalks are brick-paved and there are street lamps with round globes lining the ways, as well as telephone poles and lines. There are plenty of trees, green although the temperature is just above what might be called a “brisk chill”. The houses and buildings, and the steeples of churches, are so Alpine that Graves feel like he’s accidentally walked into the pages of _Heidi,_ though he’s in the wrong country for that.

They aren’t the only tourists either: Graves surmises quickly that Seefeld is a popular place for holidays in the country. There’s a distinct shortage of rooms in the hotels where they stop, and after some consultation and debate they decide that Queenie and Jacob—the most visibly “ordinary” couple—will take the suitcase, containing everyone else, and check into a hotel where they’ll only need one room.

“This isn’t familiar at all,” Tina remarks as they wander off, leaving Queenie and Jacob to take a room at a decent hotel.

“Someday, I would like to live in a world where Credence and I are unremarkable enough to be the couple chosen for a ruse like this,” Graves says.

Credence tosses his hair ostentatiously, putting his hands in his pocks and tilting his nose in the air just a bit. “We’re never unremarkable,” he says with a wink. It feels a bit false to Graves, but who’s better than Credence at inventing moods and masquerades? He plays along, anyway, and smiles.

“And you’re never humble, either,” Theseus says.

“No, I’m not,” Credence says. He stares up the street at a church, not really looking at the steeple but at another one, located somewhere in the past. “I spent too many years being told to be humble and living like a monk, without even the promise of salvation.”

Tina takes his hand. “Well, now you don’t have to deal with that,” she says. “Though, salvation—”

“We’re damned for all time because we’re witches,” Modesty says cheerfully. She swings Credence’s hand. “But I don’t think I care much.”

“She is absolutely your sister,” Graves says, over Credence’s laughter.

Now they’re here, Newt’s raring to go. Once Jacob and Queenie rejoin them all, they find a sunny park where the chill isn’t too brisk and sit together, making a plan. “We won’t have time for a full population survey,” Newt says, “since these birds don’t go in very large flocks, and there’s a great deal of ground to cover. But we can probably establish a need, and that’s enough for me to bring it to the attention of authorities.”

“I can’t believe you’d bring something to the attention of the authorities,” Jacob says, shaking his head. “Did we pick up the wrong Newt, somewhere along the way?”

“Well, I can’t do a full population survey alone,” Newt says, “and I can’t exactly go writing laws to protect birds all by myself!”

“That’s a skill none of us have,” James says.

Theseus, dandling his namesake on his knee, rolls his eyes. “Being an Auror is less work. Don’t know how you did it, Tina, dealing with the Senate.”

“By watching Graves delegate for years and then remembering who he delegated to,” Tina says.

“It’s good to know that you were paying attention after all,” Graves says. Credence, with Graves’ arm over his shoulders, laughs quietly.

Newt clears his throat. “See here, will you all help me or not?”

“We’ll help, we’ll help,” James says. “Tell us more, will you?”

“We’ll need to go out away from Seefeld’s limits, just in the interest of finding the birds unnoticed by humans,” Newt says. He looks up toward the surrounding hills and their forests. “And it will be easier than most surveys, if only because we’ll be looking for just one species. In order to avoid double-counting, I’ll teach everyone going a tagging spell. Somewhere I’ve got the last survey records—we’ll compare what we have with that, and if it’s worse, well, then I’ll have to go to the Austrians sharpish.”

Modesty, sitting on the bench at Credence’s other side, looks up at him while Tina starts talking about tagging spells with Theseus. “Do I have to go?” she asks softly.

“No, not if you don’t want to,” Credence says. “I think we can work something out.”

“Good,” Modesty says, leaning against him.

“You three look like a perfect family,” Queenie says with a smile.

Graves makes an unimpressed sound. “Yes, like a father and his two children,” he says. “Or perhaps a grandfather, his son, and granddaughter.”

“Don’t start that age nonsense again,” Jacob warns, grinning. “We’ve all had enough of that!”

“You don’t look old,” Credence says, turning to look at Graves. “Distinguished, is what I’d say.”

Theseus snorts in the most undignified way. “You would. You’re besotted.”

“No one can blame me,” Credence says, and Graves can’t help smiling. He’s besotted, too.

They determine the plan of attack after some discussion. Queenie and Jacob offer to stay in Seefeld with Modesty, Young Theseus, and the suitcase, while all the rest follow Newt. Graves is pleased: while this is only a temporary distraction, it’s good to be back at work with Newt. It’s been far too long since they’ve worked together.

Collecting supplies takes some time, searching through Newt’s suitcase for the requisite binoculars—not enchanted, to the surprise of all—and images of the birds so that everyone will know what to spot. There’s a prolonged halt as everyone tries to get into suitable hiking and bird-watching clothes; Newt’s already dressed, and watches with amusement as the rest sort things out. Graves flatly refuses to wear a hat; this is the source of much ridicule from his friends, he doesn’t particularly mind.

They also end up packing food and drink because they’re going to be out for an age and who knows when they’ll come back. Cottage-cheese-and-radish with spring onion on whole-grain bread, peanut-butter-and-banana or egg salad on white, sliced-ham-and-currant-jelly on entire wheat…it’s ridiculous, and by the time that they’ve packed it all no one wants to eat a thing because they’ve spent so much time tasting the best bits of all the fillings. These, plus gingerbread that Jacob has time to make in the middle of all the sandwich chaos and enchanted thermoses that will keep tea and coffee hot, formulate enough food to feed them after hours of hiking and bird-watching.

Queenie and Jacob promise to look after all the things that need looking after. Credence pauses before they go to pull Modesty aside and check one last time if she’s all right with this; she is, and takes Jacob’s hand firmly in hers, pulling the wagon behind her as they set off back into Seefeld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re interested in helping with a REAL bird survey, the Great Backyard Bird Count assists the National Audubon Society and the Cornell Lab of Ornithology in learning about bird populations, the environment in which they live, and the steps needed to protect them. (http://gbbc.birdcount.org/)
> 
> Sandwich inspiration credit to Edward Eager in _Magic by the Lake_. Since the book takes place in the 1920s, I’m going to call it fine historical inspiration. Additional recipes, as usual, credited to the Food Timeline.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, folks.

None of them know the area well enough to Apparate, so they have to hike. It seems almost like it could be a picnic, Graves thinks, with packed lunches and James whistling a merry tune as they go along. Newt leads the way, and Graves goes at his side, talking about birds and how to survey, and what spells they’ll use to tag the birds. Credence and Theseus go on either side of Tina, all three of them with arms linked; James is somewhere behind, ever the gentleman of leisure.

Everything is green and the pine trees are towering and perfect, as if they’d been drawn in a book of fairy tales. Graves remembers the Rocky Mountains and their scraggled trees, not nearly so gorgeous as these. And there are the beautiful deciduous trees as well, paler shades of green, side by side with the enormous pines. All around them the mountains rise; the air is clear and crisp and energizing.

It's an hour and a half hike out from the town before they come out into a field which Newt declares a good place to make a sort of base camp. “Not really a camp, since we won’t have a tent, but it will do,” he says. The field is rolling, covered in low grass; it’s the kind of thing that makes Graves wish they had a camera. Memories, however, will just have to do.

Newt splits them up with a critical eye. “I’ll go with James,” he says, “and Tina, you go with Percival. Theseus, take Credence…”

“Now hold on, why not send Credence with me?” Graves objects.

“You’re supposed to be watching birds, not kissing in the trees. And I sincerely doubt that you’d kiss Theseus even if someone held you at wandpoint,” Newt says. He smiles. “Remember, this isn’t just about you! It’s about what’s best for all of us.”

“It’s a fair point,” Credence says, laughing at Graves’ disgruntled expression. “Come on, Theseus, let’s go.”

“Gladly,” Theseus says, with a cheerful smile.

They split up in three different directions. “Meet back here in three hours,” Newt says. “And then we can tally up our birds and compare notes. Remember to tag the birds you count, so that you don’t try to count them more than once!”

“We won’t forget,” Tina calls over her shoulder. She looks at Graves and grins. “Shall we?”

The green shade of the trees feels mysterious indeed. Graves is hopeful that a Point Me or something similar will get them back to the field; he has no idea where they are. Then again, he doesn’t particularly want to know. It’s nice to be lost. The trees don’t care what’s happening in the wider world, only about the sun and the wind and the fact that it’s finally warm enough for them to begin to grow leaves again after the cold winter.

Graves holds branches out of Tina’s way whenever he can. They’re both too tall to go running willy-nilly around in forests—they’d get killed by branches—but Tina seems unperturbed. “How often do you do things like this?” Graves asks.

“Bird survey? Often. It’s not usually actually birds, we did Pixies once and that was…terrible.” Tina winces. “They’re just plain horrid.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Try not to.”

She looks so irked that Graves can’t help laughing a little. “You and Newt have so many adventures. It’s a little hard to believe, when you’re standing on the outside.”

“It’s hard to believe when you’re standing in the middle of it,” Tina says. “Most women find out they’re expecting in a normal way. We found out about Young Theseus because Newt was running diagnostic spells on me because we thought I’d been poisoned by a Catoblepas.”

“You’re joking.”

Tina shakes her head. “It was a long day.”

“I’ve asked before,” Graves asks, “but how in the hell did my godson survive infancy?”

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway! Let’s look for these birds.”

They set up in a hide which Tina charms together from surrounding vegetation with a few flicks of her wand. They’ll sit inside that so that birds won’t notice them or be frightened off by the presence of humans. Tina treats the affair cavalierly, as professional as Newt. She holds perfectly still, gazing out of the hide at the surrounding forest coolly. Graves is uncomfortable in the extreme. His leg cramps up after half an hour of not moving.

Carefully, Tina scatters some seed across the open space in front of them, which will hopefully attract the birds they want. “It’s all native plants,” she says. “Newt doesn’t want to disrupt their diet too terribly much.”

“Newt’s a better naturalist than any Muggle I’ve ever heard of,” Graves says, peering out of the hide’s window.

After half an hour of waiting, there’s a flash of gold among the leaves. Tina falls instantly completely still and Graves follows suit. The next thing he knows, there’s a little flock of golden birds, glittering and brilliant, fluttering down and hopping among the leaves. Tina nods at him with wide eyes, and he pulls out the notebook and pencil Newt gave him.

Tina holds up her wand and whispers the incantation under her breath. Green drops of paint, one at a time, pop from the tip of her wand and drift out. Graves counts as the drops hit each bird, and when all of them are marked, he holds up the notebook in silence. Twenty-two birds; Tina points out that according to the guidelines Newt gave them, there were thirteen females and nine males.

Before their allotted time is up they manage to canvas one other flock, this one larger at thirty-one birds with seventeen females and thirteen males. They don’t see any more birds, which Graves doesn’t know how to interpret. He’d call it a good number, but then again he’s not a magizoologist.

“That’s more than I expected,” Newt says, when Tina and Graves hand in their numbers to him.

“We only spotted a small flock,” James says. “You got quite lucky.”

Credence and Theseus are late getting back, and report only a small flock as well. “Three hours hiding in a bush,” Theseus says. “Credence's patience is an example to us all.”

“Theseus couldn’t stop fidgeting,” Credence says.

Theseus splutters, but they ignore him. “Anyone else starved?” James asks.

They unpack the lunch. Credence distributes sandwiches; Graves proclaims himself fine as long as he has an entire thermos of coffee to himself. “I thought we’d broken you of that habit?” Credence says, elbowing him. Graves doesn’t bother to answer, only takes a very long drink of coffee. Pure bliss.

While everyone else is eating, Newt tallies up the numbers and compares them with what he’d expected. “All of the flocks we saw have about the same proportion of males and females,” he says after a while, looking up from the notebooks and population survey data balanced precariously on his knees. “I believe that this data represents a good baseline…it matches with several days in the survey performed in nineteen twenty-five, but I’m not entirely confident without more data.”

Tina pulls the papers off Newt’s lap and sets them aside, passing him a sandwich. “We can collect that tomorrow,” she says firmly. “Now, eat.”


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence. Health issues have been...difficult to handle. :/
> 
> Additionally, this chapter is nerve-wracking to post, for reasons you'll see toward the end. I hope I'm not stepping on toes.

They’re in Seefeld three days, collecting Newt’s data on the birds. It feels as if they’ve been traveling nearly forever. In that time, Modesty learns more about magic. Credence coaches her through some control over her Obscurus—which is far tamer than his ever was, Graves can’t help but notice—and Graves works with Modesty to learn Lumos/Nox and the Summoning Charm. The look of unbridled delight on her face when she casts a spell always makes Credence look puffed with pride.

The afternoon after the first bird-counting expedition, Jacob pulls Graves aside. “Queenie and I talked to Modesty while you all were gone,” he says. “She doesn’t know if there’s a second Obscurial or not, but she does know she was never in Rome.”

“Damn,” Graves mutters. Their worst fears, confirmed. There’s another Obscurial out there, another child, and they don’t even know where to begin looking.

As a result of this, Graves sends a letter off to Picquery. Her response arrives on their last evening in Seefeld. Unfortunately, Newt and Jacob are out counting birds again for a final time, so they miss the conversation entirely.

 

_I’ll call on you immediately if things change. It will happen suddenly, if it does. The Assembly is debating how to proceed. Albus Dumbledore has made a strong case for a policy of tightened security rather than a straightforward assault. I hate that I had to side with him, but until we determine where that other Obscurial is we can’t make a single move. Of course that jackass Grimsditch backed him, and when America stepped in on that side it was an entirely lost cause. Even though Ferreira made the show of public opposition that we planned, I think the entire Confederation was shocked when Ya didn’t present major objection. But in the interest of our long term plans, as much as we both hate to stand down, we let it go. Ideally, we’ll move soon. When our spy in Grindelwald’s_

_ranks reports in with potential locations, we’ll know better how to proceed. If the second child really is out there, then Grindelwald is keeping it close. Until we have more, keep your cover._

 

“I hate doing nothing,” Tina announces when the letter is read. Even with Young Theseus dozing on her lap, she looks ready to dash off at a moment’s notice. “We should be out there acting!”

“We will soon enough,” James says. He sighs and rises to his feet. “In the meantime—I’d like to go for a walk. Anyone to join me?”

“I will,” Theseus says, standing up.

Queenie rises, too. “So will I,” she says.

“I’ll stay, Modesty and I have work to do,” Credence says, looking at her with a smile.

 

 

For the moment, Graves takes the opportunity to lounge on the steps and watch the creatures go about their evening. After a minute or two, Tina gets up, resettling sleepy Young Theseus in her arms and joins him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine enough,” Graves says, shrugging. “There’s not a lot we can do until later.”

“I hate it,” Tina mutters. “There’s so much we should do! We’re so close to the end now.”

“I know,” Graves says. “There are some things I can’t wait for.”

Tina cocks a look at him. “Like what, other than finally taking out Grindelwald?”

Graves listens to the distant sound of Credence and Modesty laughing. “Like ripping apart Rappaport’s Law with my bare hands.”

She laughs, and then grows oddly quiet. “No more hurt children, right?”

Graves looks at her curiously. She’s staring off into space with the same kind of vacancy he sees on himself sometimes in the mirror. Like she’s living somewhere in the past. “What is it?”

Tina looks at him with dark grief around her eyes. She holds Young Theseus as if he could be taken away from her. “Graves…you know that Queenie and I were hurt by the laws.”

“How?” Graves asks, sitting up and turning to face her properly. “You never told me.”

She’s still gazing off into space, absently rocking back and forth so Young Theseus isn’t too disturbed. “I don’t want to go into too much of it, but…you know we were orphans. And we were both magical, so…Rappaport’s Law mandated that we be raised by a magical family, taken away from…everything. When we were too young to remember what it meant to be Jewish at all.”

“That’s horrible.”

“We lost our entire heritage,” Tina says. She rubs her eyes with a free hand. “Life just doesn’t let us stop long enough for us to try to find it. And Rappaport’s Law wouldn’t let us back into the community long enough for…anything, really. Queenie and I’ve talked, but it’s never been enough. And now we’ve both gone and married men who aren’t…I only hope that our children can find it again.”

If they walk away from this alive, if they all survive and he still has breath in his body and a tongue in his mouth to speak…he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure these things can’t ever happen again. To find a middle ground between isolation and perfect freedom. To give Tina and Queenie’s children the chance to be who they are and embrace their heritage.

She laughs suddenly, bitterly. “It makes me sound like _him_ when I say I want to rip down the Statute of Secrecy for Theseus’ sake, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Graves says. “You know I want the same thing. For Credence and Modesty and every child like them. You all deserve better. You deserve freedom.”

“And we’re about to go try to kill the man who’s promising to make that happen,” Tina says. “The irony is staggering.” She scrubs at her face; her hand comes away damp. She dries it on her shirt and neither of them say anything about the tears.

“We aren’t going to fix things by killing people or enslaving Muggles,” Graves says. He squeezes her hand. “When it’s all said and done. You and I. We’ll make the world better.”

Tina gives him a long look. “We will,” she says. “For everyone.”

After that, they sit in silence. Tina slides over and snuggles into Graves’ side with Young Theseus sound asleep on her lap; Graves wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. Tina doesn’t like to look vulnerable. Knowing this secret about her, knowing this thing that she’s done her best to hide away—Graves is glad she feels she can trust him with something so personal.

She falls asleep on him, and he’s all right with that. The safety to sleep feels hard to come by, just now. If he can provide that, he’s happy. When Credence and Modesty come in from the field, Modesty still with magic snapping sparks around her hands and Credence looking ridiculously proud, Graves just puts a finger to his lips. Modesty slips quietly past them to go into her cupboard room, and Credence sits down on Graves’ other side.

“Everything okay?” Credence asks softly.

“No,” Graves says, putting his other arm around Credence. “It will be, though. Eventually, if we can manage things, and put them all to rights.”

“Like in a fairy tale,” Credence muses, leaning into Graves.

Graves smiles a bit. “Happily ever after.”

“I waited twenty-four years for a chance at happiness,” Credence says. He gazes out across the suitcase, across this paradise they’re all lucky to call home. “Every time I think the work’s done, it all falls apart again. I get a little closer every single time…maybe this time it will work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What’s up?” has been around for a while, though it’s popularly attributed strictly to Bugs Bunny. “Right about face; or, Ben the Gordon boy” from 1816 has it. The phrase has been around. 
> 
> Rappaport’s Law has the potential for some highly unpleasant consequences, which have some tragically real-world parallels. There’s a reason that the UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide has a listed piece of the definition of the term as “Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.” This is a highly effective tactic to eradicate a particular group, for reasons…that should be obvious. 
> 
> It can happen with ostensibly benevolent motives: during the Holocaust, many Jewish children were hidden by being moved in with non-Jewish families, losing their identities in the process as their names were changed, they were separated from their heritage, and sometimes baptized into Christianity. Even though those children lived, they lost a crucial part of themselves, and some of them never got that back. 
> 
> Given the nature of Rappaport’s Law (an extremely strict separation of wizards from No-Majs, right down to the removal of magical children from non-magical parents) I don’t think that this is far-fetched at all. And it’s the only reasonable explanation for why the Goldsteins are not portrayed as Jewish in the original film that I can possibly come up. No, I don’t think Rowling thought of this. But it makes a horrible, sickening kind of sense.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altenhaven: “old sanctuary”, I invented it whole-cloth because dammit we need an all-wizarding community in this story!
> 
> Echo flowers: hush, it’s the requisite Undertale reference.

There’s a great deal of debate over where they’ll go next. All the great cities are tossed around, but none quite seem to pass muster. And they can’t go anywhere small; they need somewhere that they can get communication quickly and be found by their allies. Finally, James suggests a place: “Have any of you been to Altenhaven?”

Immediately Theseus brightens. He snaps his fingers. “We went when we were children! I remember that. Do you, Newt?”

“Of course. I thought it was absolutely marvelous,” Newt says.

“What’s so special about it?” Tina asks.

Queenie beams. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it in person!” she says, sharing a secret smile with the three men. “I think we’ll all just die of excitement.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Graves says, “but never visited. I skipped touring the continent when I graduated Ilvermorny, so…”

“All I will tell you,” James says, “is that it’s a little like Hogsmeade. An all-wizarding community, very unique. You’ll see what makes it precisely so special when we arrive.”

They have to go back to Innsbruck and take a train from the magical community there. This train is somewhat slower than the ones that Muggles use; Jacob looks a little smug when Newt raises the subject. Although don’t have any difficulty, Credence has his hackles up. He’s quite ready for a fight, and his tension has everyone else on edge. But nothing happens, and eventually Credence relaxes. Graves is rather proud of him for that.

Unfortunately, Modesty has to remain in the suitcase while they’re in the car, which is disappointing, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “I like Dougal,” she says. “The creatures are much nicer than most people.”

Not having her out of the suitcase is truly tragic when they round a bend of a hill and see Altenhaven for the first time.

“My God!”

“Merlin’s beard!”

“Damn!”

They crowd at the window to see the city. It’s a walled city, not the largest place that they’ve ever seen, but beautiful, with towers and the distinct look of a castle. Banners fly from the walls, and the city gleams white in the sunlight. It’s incredible, and Graves is stunned by the sight.

“Unplottable, of course, and kept very secret from Muggles,” Theseus says, settling back in his seat. “It’s a holiday town these days, but long before the Statute of Secrecy when magic still ran wild in Europe there was a line of wizard-kings who ruled from it. They’re responsible for a good piece of the stories of enchantresses and princesses and the wicked stepmothers and charmed knights and so on and so forth. But by the end of medieval times, they couldn’t run around turning kings into frogs or convincing young princes to try their luck at marrying daughters. So the castle was hidden, and now…”

The train station is outside the walls of the city itself; they take a carriage pulled by white horses through the city gates. There’s an inn where they can stay, intensely traditional and beautiful. The carvings on the walls move about, dancing and jumping and frolicking; the eyes of goblins follow them and carved flowers wave in the non-existent breeze.

It’s an exceptional city. There seem to be no worries or cares among the holiday-makers from all nations who fill the streets. This, Graves thinks as they sit in a restaurant that evening eating magically-produced and enchanted delights, is what the wizarding world would look like without the interference of the Muggle world. At the restaurant, a conductor leads a string quartet without musicians; paintings on the walls depict historic residents of Altenhaven as they were in life, right down to their very speech.

On the next morning they decide that it’s a good idea to explore the city. Newt, James, and Theseus have been, but none of the rest of them have, and Jacob is raring to go. Before they leave, Graves looks in on Modesty, to make sure she’s all right with their exploration of the city without her. She’s playing with the Mooncalves when he finds her, and smiles at him. “I’m okay,” she says.

“I don’t want you to feel like we’re abandoning you,” Graves says carefully.

She looks up at him with eyes too old for her age. “You’re not,” she says. “I like being alone.”

Graves gets the same feeling of failure from Modesty as he does sometimes for Credence. It’s his fault, in a way, that they were so damaged. That he didn’t find them quickly enough. Like her brother, Modesty doesn’t seem to hold any of the present wizards responsible. The guilt, though, remains.

He’s quiet when he comes out of the suitcase. Queenie obviously knows what’s going on with him. She keeps up the light banter, and shortly enough the conversation is flowing naturally. With her arm through Newt’s, she pulls them along through the streets of Altenhaven.

Historic sites fill the city. It seems that over every door is a placard—some famous wizard slept here, or there was a fairy tale whose roots are here, or some such thing. They’re constantly stopping and starting to simply look and marvel, and not just for the sites.

It should be like an ordinary city, and in many ways it is—every place that people live needs grocers, bakers, apothecaries, and the like. But every city does not have the magical professions on full display on every corner. There’s an astrology tower, which is meant solely for predicting the future; there they hear murmurs about war and terrible events, and hurry on before they have to hear too much. At an open-air market there are magical fruits and vegetables on display that Credence and Jacob have never seen before and at which both of them are utterly agape, from blue pumpkins to dirigible plums.

The apothecaries are real apothecaries, not No-Maj druggists, providing potions and unguents to solve any ailment, magical remedies that work so much better than any No-Maj medicine. They see an old-fashioned rag-and-bone man, enchanted cart rolling faithfully behind him, full of detritus: bundles of feathers from the owlery, scraps of potion ingredients, a broken copper cauldron, and so on and so forth.

A spice shop occupies their attention longer than it ought. There are the requisite ordinaries, but also things like blister dill root, shano spore, echo flower pollen, and ochiabi. These are ingredients that Graves, who’s competent with potion-making but has never been accused of mastering, has never even heard of. The Cerberus Cinema shows three one-reelers in a row, of course all dealing with magical subjects, and Jacob has a good laugh at that, because in the No-Maj world one-reelers have been out of style in favor of longer films for years.

Graves calls a halt at The Raven’s Quill, a book seller; here there are books in all languages, not only in local ones. Tina spends half an hour with James in the Dragon’s Closet, a tailor; by the time they come out, her out-of-style dress is transformed into the latest fashion of the wizarding world. Wand’s Want, selling accoutrements for wands like holsters and display cases, and also offering to embellish wand handles, occupies Theseus for that same half hour. Queenie and Credence are fully sidetracked by Revered Relics, a shop selling wizarding antiques; Jacob and Newt end up in a pet shop called Beaks and Whiskers, and it’s a collective agreement that they’ll just ignore the kitten who’s taken up a determined residence in Newt’s pocket when the two men come out.

But it’s Champion’s Ring, the best dueling club in the city, which attracts their real attention. A sign posted at the door explains that, tonight, there will be an open opportunity for experienced duelists to challenge the unbroken stretch of victories for the best duelist in the city. Of course, for four highly competitive former Aurors, this sign attracts significant attention. They pull everyone aside into a quiet, shadowy alley corner for a furious discussion.

“It would be downright unfair to throw Percy at them,” James says. “Now, me—”

“Do shut up, _Consul General_ ,” Theseus says. “I might—”

Graves snorts. “Yes, _war hero_ Theseus Scamander certainly won’t attract attention. I think—”

“Graves, if you try to take the place that belongs to _me_ —” Tina starts.

Jacob steps in between them all. “Hey, hey! I think you’re all missing it,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Theseus asks. “Do you want to try?”

“I ain’t quite that good,” Jacob says with a wink. “But see—”

“We oughta really listen to him,” Queenie says, smiling.

Newt and Credence, merely listening, lean in a bit. “What is it?” Credence asks.

“Why not have all four of you in?” Jacob asks. “And let the best wizard win!”

Graves looks at Tina, Theseus, and James. “Well,” Theseus says slowly, “I certainly would like to test my mettle…”

“I might brush up my skills like this,” Tina says with a nod.

James looks thoughtful. “If we don’t want our identities known—well, I bought half a dozen volto masks in Venice, they’ll cover our faces and keep us from being seen.”

“Won’t that be against the rules?” Credence asks.

“In a competition like this, there’s very little in the way of ‘rules’ at all,” Newt says.

Graves nods. “All right,” he says. “We’ll try it.”

 

***

 

The club is a roar of noise by the time that Graves takes his place. He’s the last challenger on the list; everyone else has already been through the wringer. There were twelve wizards all told, and after an hour of fast-paced dueling only Graves and the reigning champion of Altenhaven are left standing. James’ precision was more of a liability than an asset in a fight against a brawler of a wizard and Tina struggled against an opponent who relied on strange spells of his own devising.

At this point, Graves’ nerves are thrumming. To reach this point he had to fight his way through two wizards—none he knew—and watch the reigning champion and Theseus fight nearly to a standstill before Theseus was finally knocked down. Graves is the last challenger. The win will be granted to whichever wizard either disarms or completely incapacitates his opponent first.

It turned out that the only rule in this fight was a prohibition on wandless magic.

Graves feels rather hampered by that.

Still, wordless magic isn’t out of the question, and that is an advantage. Graves believes after watching three fights that this champion isn’t competent in casting soundlessly. Furthermore, the mask affords him one advantage which no one had thought of: his opponent can’t see Graves giving off cues to his next move. The alabaster mask, painted around the edges with black diamonds and filigreed around the eyes in gold, fits tight to his face, preventing any motion from being seen.

Graves watches the champion as they raise their wands to each other and bow. He’s got a lot of flourish, and relies heavily on footwork to dodge incoming spells. He seeks openings and strikes quickly at those with feints and maneuvers. That’s how he’d gotten to Theseus, whose style is quite similar to Graves’. The only thing to do, of course, is to combine both sets of rules.

For a long moment, neither of them move.

And then the other wizard bursts into motion, wand out in a wide arc with white light blazing from it. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Graves whips up his wand in the same moment, hurling up a silver shield between them. A cheer rises from the crowd as the spell skids off the shield, but the duelists ignore it, already moving, circling warily. Graves’ quick defense was clearly unanticipated: the wizard’s eyes are narrow.

And Graves merely has to step to the side as the wizard aims a slashed turquoise Impediment Jinx at him, the shot going wide. What he didn’t anticipate was the speedy follow-up: a Trip Jinx right on his feet. Graves hits the ground and rolls, comes up onto one knee, and hurls a Stinging Hex that slams the other wizard square in the chest. The distraction while the wizard frantically casts Finite Incantatem is enough time for Graves to be back on his feet.

He twirls his wand and a cloud of smoke billows up around them.

 

 

 

 

The other wizard howls as he’s slammed backwards, thrown across the ring, and his wand goes clattering away.

Whistles sound, signaling the end of the match, and Graves stands there panting a bit and grinning behind the mask. It feels rather good to get a win, even in something banal like this.

He’s cornered immediately by his friends upon his exit from the ring. They herd him quickly away from the clamoring crowd. Outside, in a secluded spot behind a building, Graves finally wrenches off the mask, shaking back the sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. He’s nearly overwhelmed by the hearty congratulations and three cheers they give him, but can’t stop smiling.

“You’re amazing,” Modesty says, eyes wide as saucers. “Can I do that? Will you teach me?”

“When you’re a little older,” Graves promises.

Theseus claps him on the back. “I see why you’re such a legend!” he says, and James and Tina echo the praise effusively.

Queenie hugs him, of course, and Newt congratulates him with a smile. Jacob gives him a grin: “I like to watch you fight,” he says. “You’re a smart one.”

Credence leans in to kiss Graves’ cheek. “Amazing,” he says, and that’s the sweetest praise anyone has given Graves yet.

They eat dinner at the hotel restaurant, once the four duelists have freshened up slightly and have had a chance to relax a bit. Toasts are raised to them and their dueling prowess, though quietly when they come to Graves: they don’t particularly want attention drawn to the fact that the Champion’s Ring victor is here. And Graves is very satisfied with that.

It’s halfway through dinner when someone comes into the restaurant. Graves doesn’t notice, at first, too busy laughing with Modesty and Queenie over some joke Jacob told, but he does notice when Credence falls completely still beside him. Graves looks up and sees Seraphina Picquery navigating her way between the tables to them. Everyone else turns, too, and a wary silence drops over the table.

Picquery draws up a chair and sits down in silence. She’s dressed for travel, inconspicuous in gray Muggle clothing, neither stylish nor dumpy. It’s perfect for fitting in—or for a fight.

It feels like the world is holding its breath.

Graves’ heart is beating fast again. This, he’s certain, is it. The news has come.

“Good show at the Champion’s Ring today,” she says at last, looking at Graves. “I didn’t expect anything less.”

“It’s nice to know you still think highly of me,” Graves says dryly.

There’s another pause.

It’s Newt who picks it up. “Is it time?” he asks, watching Picquery with a steady gaze. “I can’t think of another reason you’d be here.”

“Our spy pinpointed the location of the other Obscurial at Nurmengard,” Picquery says with a slow nod, looking around the table. “And Grindelwald is there. He does not know we’re coming. Are you all ready?”

Graves surveys the table. Modesty is pale and scared beside him, and on her other side Queenie has raised her head, looking cool and almost frightening. Jacob shrugs, with a kind of ‘what the hell’ expression, when Graves looks at him. Newt, beside him with Young Theseus on his lap, signals his approval. Tina nods with a sharp jerk. Theseus folds his arms, giving his assent; James only smiles, soft and sad. And then Graves looks at Credence, who’s looking back at him steadily.

“Are we ready?” Graves asks him.

“We’re ready,” Credence says.

The shadows around them rise.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat*
> 
> The trope for this chapter can be neatly summarized in two lines.
> 
> “Gondor calls for aid!”
> 
> “ **And Rohan will answer!** ”
> 
> Look. If they’re a character in the Accidental Epic, if they’re an American Auror or an English Pure-Blood or a side-character mentioned once in a story about the International Debacle, they’re on stage right here, right now. Enjoy, y’all.

They move that very night, with no more time to waste on anything else. There’s a building outside the walls of Altenhaven into which people will Portkey. “They’re coming in from all across the world,” Seraphina says. “We need to have space.”

“How many did you collect?” Graves asks.

“Enough,” Picquery says, unlocking the door of the building with a series of raps of her wand, in a pattern Graves remembers from their days as Aurors together.

Most of the building is empty, and there are cobwebs and dust draped over everything like blankets. Gaping holes in the ceiling give a view of the stars; the floor is pitted and pocked. Graves takes up a spot near the wall, able to see every opening, and Credence joins him there. Picquery marks off an area in the center of the building, out of which they’re all to stay: it’s a Portkey landing zone. James and Newt methodically cover the building in wards and guards, putting holes in the Anti-Disapparition Jinxes only for those who are their allies, while Tina stands at the door and watches. Queenie follows Picquery; Theseus and Jacob, Graves notices, have disappeared.

The first Portkey to arrive comes bearing American Aurors. Queenie ushers them out of the arrival zone immediately, and the woman clearly in the lead locks onto Graves immediately. She strides across the room as if she’s the tallest person in it and offers her hand. “Graves. Good to see you again, even under these circumstances.”

“Rosa,” Graves says, smiling. “Let’s just hope there are no cannons, this time. Credence, this is Rosa Alvarez, Regional Director of the Auror Office in Texas.”

“A pleasure,” Rosa says, studying Credence as she shakes his hand. “Or it would be, under any other circumstances.” She introduces her Aurors, but it’s a short introduction. They give terse nods, but otherwise very little else, getting out of the way and following Picquery to receive a mission briefing.

The second Portkey comes with a crew of red-headed, fierce-looking men and women who are introduced as the best of the best of the Weasley family. They’re all Gryffindors, according to Newt, and looking at them, listening to their jovial banter about how they’ll all meet for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron after this, boasting about their prowess, Graves can believe it.

Other Portkeys arrive in short order, and the building begins to fill with people. The other Pure-Blood families are clearly taking direction from Lionel Weasley and Horace Slughorn, both of whom know Picquery well. When Theseus makes a sudden appearance, they greet him with round acclaim. A few more American Aurors arrive, a few from the Southwest, three from New York. And then there’s the large group of Canadians, hot on their heels.

A trio of Portkeys comes bearing João Ferreira and a group of Aurors from Brazil and other countries of South America. “We have a vested interest in defeating Grindelwald,” he says, when Graves asks why they’re here. He had no idea that there would be people coming from this far away. “He threatens to crush us, just as he threatens to crush the rest in his pursuit of…peace. I will not let it stand, not while I have a wand in my hands.”

On their heels comes a Portkey bearing two women. One is dark and lovely, wearing red robes; Graves recognizes her as Leta Lestrange. The other, paler, nervous and wearing robes far too fine for combat, he doesn’t recognize. Theseus, on his way to shake Leta’s hand, pauses in surprise. “That’s Theodosia Avery,” he says. “Leta’s cousin. I hadn’t expected to see her here, as dedicated a Pure-Blood as she is…”

“I came for Leta’s sake,” Theodosia says when Graves awkwardly asks, holding her cousin’s hand tightly. “Family is more important than anything.”

A surprise arrives on the Portkey in from the upper West of America, coming from Denver. When they pop into existence, Graves startles, and then smiles broadly. There’s a familiar woman in charge, and he’s thrilled to see her. She turns, sees Graves, says something to the woman at her right hand and then hurries across the room to Graves and Credence. “You son of a bitch,” she says the second she’s in front of them, “I thought you were dead!”

“I’m sorry, Winfrith,” Graves says contritely. “I’ve got no excuse.”

He doesn’t blame her for crying a little. If truth be told, Graves’ eyes are a little teary as well. No one remarks upon the fact.

Next is the large group of Chinese Aurors—unsurprising in themselves; what is surprising is that Ya Zhou is among them. She walks right up to Picquery and, in full view of everyone, kisses her. Graves can only shake his head. He knew it.

Other Portkeys arrive fast, from everywhere, from across the world. Aurors from Dahomey, from Russia, from _everywhere_. It seems that all of the coalition-building that’s been going on behind the scenes has finally paid off. Graves is impressed.

When all is said and done, there are a so many people packed into the room that Graves goes a little cross-eyed. He’s up front with Credence beside the coalition leaders—Seraphina, Ya, and Ferreira, with the Auror Tiwalade, representing Dahomey in her President’s stead. It’s a remarkable gathering and Graves surveys in some awe.

There are English blood traitors from every Hogwarts House. A contingent of Brazilian Aurors; a slightly smaller group sent by Brazil’s allies. A crowd of Chinese Aurors, all with the light of action in their eyes. A regal group of women from Dahomey’s famed female Auror regiment. There are tiny pockets of Aurors from other states, most of them defying orders to be here: Russian, German, French, Japanese, and others. American Aurors from Denver, Texas, and New York. A group of Canadians from three provinces. Siamese Aurors, in enchanted battle gear; a group of Anatolians; a tiny, proud group of Costa Rican Aurors. Every single one, shoulder to shoulder, united against the enemy.

And then there are Graves’ people, off slightly to one side. Tina, Queenie, Theseus, Newt with Young Theseus in his arms, Jacob, Modesty…and Credence right beside him.

This is more than Graves had ever expected.

Picquery rests the tip of her wand at the base of her throat. “Sonorous,” she murmurs, and then lifts her chin and speaks. Her voice peals through the room with the clarity of a bell. “You all know why we’re here, and why you have been called today. For country, for blood, for justice—it doesn’t matter anymore. We are all on one side. We are defying the orders of the International Confederation of Wizards, and even if we succeed we may suffer penalties. If anyone here is not ready for that, then this is your chance to leave.”

Graves holds his breath.

No one moves.

“Here is what we know, courtesy of our spy,” Picquery says, reviewing the individual mission briefings she’d given to everyone as they arrived. “Nurmengard is heavily warded. We can Apparate in, but once in we cannot Apparate out. Flight will be impossible; it is forward or nothing. As far as we are aware, we are almost equally matched with the forces at Nurmengard. However, there are other wards and guards we will have to deal with, and that puts us at a disadvantage. Curse-Breakers, are you prepared?”

Leta, eyes hard, nods sharply. “All of us,” she says, glancing at the mixed crew of Curse-Breakers beside her. “We won’t be otherwise able to help with the fighting.”

“We’ve planned for that,” Picquery says. “Each of you will have a partner to protect you while you work. They’ll be tasked with keeping you safe. As for the rest, you’ll follow your individual commanders; they’ve been briefed on where to go and what to do.”

Graves watches Winfrith and the other commanders, every one visibly unafraid and ready to fight, as they assent to that.

“As for us, we will be directly pursuing Grindelwald,” Picquery says, gesturing at Credence and Graves. “Do not sacrifice yourselves. If he shows up, _run_.”

“I’d like a shot at the bastard,” Lionel Weasley says in a ringing voice.

“You have no chance,” Graves says, speaking loudly enough that everyone can hear. He doesn’t move, but eyes are turning to him. He still knows how to control a crowd. “I know exactly what he’s capable of. He is the _greatest_ Dark wizard of the age. Picquery and I will be lucky if we can take him.”

“Then what the hell are you planning to do to fight him?” Rosa demands. She’s not the only one to voice dissent, but she’s certainly the loudest.

“We’re attacking tonight because Grindelwald has an Obscurial there and he’s ready to use it to do to another city what he did to Rome,” Picquery says. “Unfortunately for him, we have one, too.”

Credence stands stock-still as every eye in the room turns to him. “He doesn’t look like much,” one of the Brits says scornfully.

“He _destroyed_ New York,” one of the American Aurors says, turning a befuddled look on the dissenter. “I’m not sure about you, but I was there, I saw it happen.”

The woman persists. “He’s not an Auror! There’s no training—we’re all trained fighters, and we’re letting him be our only hope?”

At her words Credence’s eyes blaze white. He takes a step forward, towards the crowd, as the room goes cold. Literally cold: Graves is breathing clouds. “Credence,” Graves says, low. Credence gives him a slight nod and stops moving, as the temperature rises again. Crisis temporarily averted, then.

“And who is your spy, anyway?” one of the Costa Ricans asks, diverting everyone’s attention again. “Can we trust the information you’ve been given?”

Picquery nods. “Absolutely,” she says.

It’s time for the truth. “Who is it?” Graves asks.

“…Albus Dumbledore,” Picquery says after a moment.

The room damn near implodes.

It takes three minutes for the clamor to calm down. “What is Dumbledore doing!?” Newt shouts out, over the remaining whispers.

“He and Grindelwald were childhood friends,” Ya Zhou says, stepping forward. Her presence is like a weight in the middle of a sheet. No one can look away from her. And Graves thought Picquery was imposing. “When we needed a spy in his ranks, Dumbledore volunteered. He is one of few wizards who has the power to resist Grindelwald’s Legilimency, the skill to avoid detection, and the personal history to be trusted; he is waiting to help us in our strike on Nurmengard from the inside.”

For a long moment, there’s silence as everyone tries to process that. Dumbledore: a spy on the inside, someone who can help fight on the ground. Graves is _elated._  

“There you have it,” Picquery finally says, cutting into the silence. “We leave in an hour. Make your preparations. And say your goodbyes.”

 

***

 

There are a surprising number of goodbyes to be had. Graves finds Theseus introducing him to one of his former Aurors—“Diana Weasley, nee Davenport,” he says of the short woman with her glasses and curly hair, “one of my best when I was in the Ministry, can’t flirt with her now she’s married.” She laughs and swats him on the arm.

Credence follows Graves around as Winfrith introduces him to the Denver Aurors. They’re mildly in awe of Graves, it seems; reactions vary between treating him like he’s either a ghost or a god. Those who admire fall over themselves to shake his hand and tell him what an honor it is; the rest can’t seem to make themselves look at him.

Rosa Alvarez introduces her Aurors again; they’ve all fought Grindelwald’s followers before, every one tested in combat. There are three from New York, and their leader Edison Mattina is sunny and utterly optimistic that they’ll win out the fight. His two—shy, determined Junior Aurors, both of them—manage to look Graves in the eye when they shake his hand, and he can admire that. “They’re good,” Mattina says to Graves, “and they’re the only ones courageous enough to come. We aren’t supposed to be here.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Graves replies, before being whisked away again. Picquery wants Graves to meet the necromancers, who will deal with Inferi when they appear. It’s expected that Grindelwald will be fielding the walking corpses at the gates of his castle; for today, the Dark Art of necromancy will be invaluable on the front lines.

Tiwalade talks at length with Graves about the strategies they’ll be using and they’re suddenly joined by Horace Slughorn. It’s a furious discussion. Graves feels right at home among all of these people, soldiers like him. He respects and admires them—all of them.

All at once there’s an earsplitting crack and an unexpected Portkey pops into existence in the middle of the room. Half the room has wands out and aimed at the source of the noise before people start shouting. Graves pushes all the way to the front of the crowd, where a young woman is yelling at two other Aurors in Russian.

“Yuliya!?” James shouts, bursting out of the crowd.

She turns and grins at him. “You think I’d let a ban stop me from joining you?” she says, going to join him. He smiles from ear to ear and offers his arm to her; she doesn’t take it, but throws her arms around him in a hug he happily returns.

It’s good to see her, Graves thinks. That’s one more person in the fight. At the same time, it’s one more person who could be hurt, one more person they’ll care about when everything goes wrong.

By the time that they’re done circling the room to meet people, there’s about fifteen minutes left before they depart for Nurmengard. Graves and Credence retreat to a corner of the room, putting their backs to a wall. It’s here they’re joined by Newt, without the suitcase. He doesn’t say anything, only leans on the wall beside Graves, so their shoulders are just barely touching.

Then Tina comes up, and Graves notices that she’s not carrying the suitcase either. “Where…”

“Ya Zhou has it,” Tina says softly. “She’s…going to take care of it. And Young Theseus, and Modesty, if…”

Graves nods slowly. “Right.”

Queenie appears out of nowhere and puts an arm around Tina. She’s pale and shaky and Graves can’t even imagine what she’s hearing right now from everyone around them. “It will be okay,” she says in half a whisper.

“Yeah,” Jacob says, coming up to them. It takes Graves a moment, and then—

“When did you get a gun?” Tina asks sharply.

Jacob glances just slightly over his shoulder, where the rifle he carries sits. He carries it with proficiency, and Graves shouldn’t be surprised. Not after the memories he saw, not after what he’s learned. Jacob, just like Graves, never really came back from his war. “Theseus thought I should have something. Enchanted never to need to reload. Wizards ain’t ever ready for a Muggle with a gun.”

“No,” Newt says.

Credence shakes his head. “You can’t…”

“I can and I will,” Jacob says. “I ain’t leaving you all alone.” And it’s obvious, just looking at him, that he won’t be persuaded otherwise.

James waves at Graves awkwardly from about twenty feet away. “Just…a moment,” Graves says, looking around. Credence gives him a gentle push.

“It’s almost time, I guess,” James says, giving Graves that familiar smile.

“Yes,” Graves says. “And just like old times.”

James shakes his head. “You’d better not mean the old times when you got nearly killed on every mission,” he says.

Graves sighs. “I promise not to get shot unless you’re there to drag me home,” he says.

“Good,” James says. He pauses, and the smile vanishes. “Percy…would you do me a favor?”

“What is it?” Graves asks.

James fumbles in his pocket. “I expect,” he says, in a hurried voice, “that I’ll take a fall or two tonight, and if that happens…” He produces a pair of glasses.

For a second, Graves just stares at James. Then he takes the glasses and, carefully, puts them in the breast pocket of his jacket. “You,” he says, “are never going to change.”

“No,” James says. He hugs Graves tight, and Graves returns it. “I’m not.”

Graves returns to the little circle by the wall. They’re all talking, and they all fall silent when he arrives, looking at him expectantly. He looks around, and sighs. Of course he has to speak. “I…this is difficult, you all know I’m not…”

“Not a sentimental idiot like the rest of us,” Tina says. She sniffs a little and forges forward anyway. “I don’t think all of us are coming home after this.”

“Don’t say that,” Credence says. He swallows hard and shuffles his feet a bit. “You’ll get back. If anyone doesn’t come back, it will be me…I don’t know what it will take for me to fight the other one, I don’t know how it will…if I can…”

Queenie lets go of Tina and seizes his hand. “You can,” she says fiercely. “You can. ’Cause you might not be able to sense your own magic like you sense ours, but I’ll tell you right now that it’s like listening to a hurricane or seeing a wildfire or standing in an earthquake. You can.”

Graves looks at Credence, almost bowled over. Sense magic—? But there’s no time to ask about it, because Credence is very busy wrapping Queenie in a very tight, very tearful hug. 

“I only,” Newt says, and stops before starting again. “I only wanted to thank you. All of you. You were…the first friends I had in a very long time. You didn’t have to be. But you were.” He stops, and Graves can almost see the words choked up in his throat.

“Aw, Newt,” Jacob says, “you know it goes around. Nobody cared about me, ’til you came along and changed everything.”

“Jacob said it best,” Credence says, still holding Queenie very tightly. “We might be all right on our own, but we’re better together.”

“We are,” Tina says, squaring her shoulders. “There aren’t any other people in the world I’d rather call family than the five of you.”

Graves is just watching this. He loves these people more than anything, anyone, in the world. He always has. He’d been willing to destroy half of New York for Credence within a month of meeting him, to take a bullet for Queenie and Jacob in Chicago, to confront Grindelwald for Newt and Tina. He’d been willing to die for them. And he still is.

Tina gives Graves a long look. “We owe you.”

“Yes,” Newt says. “We do.”

“What?” Graves glances around at all of them, taking half a step back. “No one owes me anything, you do realize…”

“Without you we wouldn’t be here,” Tina says. “You wouldn’t have found Credence, and we wouldn’t have called Newt back to New York…Jacob would still be running his bakery without knowing Queenie existed, and I’d be out of a job ’cause you _know_ Grimsditch wouldn’t have kept me…”

Jacob scoffs. “And he wouldn’t deserve you if he had!”

The tension breaks with a laugh. It’s surprising, almost, that Newt is the one to take Graves’ hand and pull him into a hug; what’s less surprising is that the rest of them join. It’s a messy, awkward thing, this hug: six people packed together, holding on as tightly as they can. Graves could almost forget—but then he hears Tina’s stifled sob, and it all comes back. When they let go Tina is wiping her eyes and Jacob’s unashamedly crying, while Credence steps back and bites his lip, eyes watering. Graves is holding it together by sheer force of will: he can’t afford tears now.

“Don’t be stupid,” Graves says, looking at all of them. “Be brave, be smart, be _vigilant_.”

“We will,” Queenie whispers. She swallows hard and looks up at him, square in the eye. “You are not and never have been a waste of anyone’s time, Percival Graves. Live for us. Don’t you _dare_ die for us.”

For the first time since they’ve arrived, Graves’ composure cracks. His heart does something very strange. Still, if his composure cracks, it feels like something else was just…mended. “I won’t,” he says, very softly. “I swear.”

Credence looks up, and Graves follows his gaze. James and Theseus are hovering anxiously, Modesty standing between them. “Go,” Credence says. “They’re waiting.”

Newt and Tina step aside, talking, embracing, Newt tucking a lock of hair behind Tina’s ear. Jacob and Queenie, too, a kiss, a whispered promise that Graves is sure to be to never forget each other. And then Modesty hurries up to Credence. It’s not a long goodbye. Only a brief, fierce hug, a kiss on his cheek, and a promise to her that he’ll come back if he can—and she’s gone, escorted into the suitcase where she’ll stay, guarded by Ya Zhou and the two Aurors remaining behind to protect her in the event of catastrophe. He sees Picquery, standing by Ya Zhou and talking; it looks like both women are struggling to hold back tears.

“Her general…whatever she says,” Graves says, turning to Credence, a kind of fatalistic amusement filling him up. “That would be like calling us only partners…”

He stops, then, because Credence is staring at Graves with wide dark eyes. The same expression is on his face that he’d worn the night they first kissed. “Percival?” Credence asks.

“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” Graves says, keeping his voice rock-steady.

“So do I,” Credence whispers. His voice cracks. “Don’t…Percival, please, be careful.”

Graves shakes his head. “There’s no ‘careful’ now. We can only go forward,” he says. And then _his_ voice breaks. He can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, though he wants to. “Credence, if worst comes to worst…promise me that you won’t let him have me.”

“I swear,” Credence says, and chokes on the words. “I won’t.” He moves to reach out for Graves and stops, looking indecisive and afraid.

Graves makes the decision for him. He pulls Credence into a tight embrace. “I love you,” he says, almost directly against Credence’s ear. “I didn’t know, when I first saw you, who you’d become. What we’d be, together.”

“We’re better together,” Credence whispers, words almost lost in Graves’ coat. “Always have been. Always will be.”

“Whatever happens to me—Credence, I believe fully that you can find a happy ending, with or without me,” Graves says, drawing back to look at him.

Credence clutches at Percival’s coat, looking scared and lost. “I don’t want a story without you,” he says, voice cracking on a sob. “I don’t. My story—it’s yours, too, there was never _anything_ for me without you. I’d have been a freak or belonged to Grindelwald or just forgotten and you—you—”

The words are pouring out of him and Graves can barely understand them, but he thinks he knows what Credence means. He hugs Credence again and Credence surprises him by turning his head and kissing him. It’s panicked, final, tastes of tears.

For just a moment, Graves forgets how to breathe.  

There was never a world where they weren’t together, no matter what, no world where Credence was forgotten and Graves was left to die. Such a world is impossible to imagine, when Credence is here, real and solid and steady, the axis on which Graves’ world turns. The world without Credence is a world in which Graves doesn’t want to live.

But there’s a war waiting for them, and so they have to break apart. And when they do, Graves straightens and looks at Picquery, standing close now. “We’re ready,” he says.

She gives them both a long, long look. “Are you?”

There are other people in the room, preparing for their moment to leave in the waves of people departing for Nurmengard; the rest of Graves’ friends are gone. They’re to be the main distraction, since anyone will assume that Credence and Graves will be with them. They’re the ones throwing themselves right into the path of the worst danger. Thinking of that, Graves is so calm he forgets what it’s like to be afraid. If Credence can get to that Obscurial, if they can get to Grindelwald, if they can win that fight—the others will live.

“We’ve always been ready,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the endgame.
> 
> With regard to the glasses, I'll just put this passage from back when they were just baby Aurors here: _After the fourth time that James loses his glasses in the middle of a mission, Percival starts carrying James’ spare pair around in the breast pocket of his coat._


	51. Chapter 51

Nurmengard is a massive structure hunched upon the mountainside. It’s a terrifying fortress, absolutely gargantuan. On its cliff, surrounded by the thick dark forest, it seems impenetrable. It isn’t, though: they have the key to the back door.

As they land the forest is alive with the flashes of spells and the shouts of combatants. They can’t stop to help anyone, though Graves hears at least one dying scream and sees green light flying on both sides. He, Credence, and Picquery, under a weight of Disillusionment Charms that would hide an elephant, race through the forest from the point at which they’d arrived toward the castle. They pass by familiar faces, but never once slow down.

Graves never sees his friends—he can imagine them, though, Newt and Theseus back to back fighting for their lives, Queenie cueing Jacob of danger so he can shoot, Tina protecting James the sharpshooter as he takes his deadly aim. He can hear, sometimes, the report of Jacob’s gun; once Graves thinks he hears the screech of Newt’s Swooping Evil.

At the foot of the castle Picquery guides them away from the thick of the heavy fighting at the gates. The Inferi are there after all, doing battle with the necromancers. The Curse-Breakers are working already to tear apart the wards on the gates. As they duck down the side of the castle Graves hears an explosion and an agonized scream and knows that someone has died. He flinches but doesn’t stop moving as they stagger down, tripping over jagged rocks, turning ankles and scraping shins, to where Picquery says the back door waits.

She opens it with a rap of her wand and a murmured spell; inside, when the door closes behind them, it’s utterly silent. A tunnel stretches a short distance, straight forward into darkness.

“Where do we go?” Graves asks in an undertone.

“This comes out in the prison block,” Picquery replies. “There might be guards, but I doubt it. They’ll be fighting.”

Credence looks shivery at the edges, eyes white. He follows Graves and Picquery, who drop the Disillusionment Charms and stride side by side, wands out, perfectly attuned to each other. It feels, Graves thinks wryly, just like the old days.  

At the top of a flight of stairs is a second concealed door; Picquery opens this one, too, and they slip out into the prison. Magical lights, suspended at intervals down the hall, cast a sheer white glow over the black stone and iron bars. The air sizzles with sick magic, Dark magic, cold and grotesque. Graves can almost taste it. The atmosphere feels like it would if there were Dementors all around them, but Graves pushes forward. There isn’t time to dwell now.

Graves and Picquery sweep through the prison, Credence drifting on their heels. They don’t stop: there are no prisoners in the cells anyway. At the end is a barred iron door; here they stop for a brief moment. There’s a thin gap beneath it, and vague light from the hallway.

“I hear nothing, but—I assume it’s trapped,” Picquery says.

“We’ll just have to open—” Graves starts, but Credence cuts him off.

“I’ll look,” he says.

Suddenly the Obscurus is all around them. It snakes over the floor, over their feet, and Picquery curses, muffled behind her hand. Credence closes his eyes and presses his hands flat to the door as tendrils of the Obscurus slide out under the door, presumably to listen and look for traps.

When Credence opens his eyes and withdraws the Obscurus, Graves can only stare. “I had no idea you could do that,” Graves says slowly.

“ _It’s how I listened in on you that night_ ,” Credence says, glancing at the shadows surging around them, obviously distracted. Graves winces, but doesn’t comment. Eavesdropping explained, at least, albeit a little late. “ _We’re safe. No guards, no traps as far as I could see_.”

“Very well,” Picquery says, recovering herself. She shoves open the door and steps out into the long black hall. “And we go right.”

They’re damn near running through the prison block, now, spurred on by a sudden sense of urgency. Credence is flickering, tearing himself apart at the seams, rage painted over his face. Graves wonders, too late, if this was a good idea or not.

And all at once they turn a corner, turning left, and there they are. In an open hall, an assembly chamber. High windows allow in light; here, too, there are magical lights suspended permanently in the air. In the middle of the chamber, two men, looking into what must be a scrying glass, two men who turn as Credence, Graves, and Picquery enter. Both familiar, one a welcome sight and one utterly hateful.

This time, facing Grindelwald, Graves doesn’t flinch.

“My dear Credence,” Grindelwald says smoothly, odd-colored eyes traveling over them, “it’s good to see you again. And Percival…I’m sorry that, again, we find ourselves at odds.”

Credence doesn’t speak. The Obscurus is pouring out of him into a dark cloud on the floor and he’s flickering in and out like film from a burning reel.

And Graves just feels tired. He can’t even be afraid now, and the strength with which he grips his wand is only borne of caution. “Enough games,” he says. “I’m not here to talk.”

“I’m glad to see you in one piece,” Grindelwald says smoothly. “I worried about your well-being, after Paris. Sending Dementors after you was risky, but…”

Graves sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “Of course you sent those,” he says.

Grindelwald’s eyes glint with amusement. “You always are amusing to watch, Percival.”

“You didn’t warn us about that, Albus,” Picquery says tersely, pacing slowly to the side.

“I apologize, Seraphina,” Dumbledore says, almost shame-faced.

His eyes do not twinkle, Graves notices, and his stomach drops. It occurs to Graves that the Obscurial can’t possibly be present. There are no nooks, no places to hide a child. But Dumbledore had assured them…

The world’s tilting under his feet as piece after piece falls firmly and terribly into place, and Credence must be coming to the same conclusion as Graves just did.

“ _Traitor_ ,” Credence snarls.

“What?” Picquery snaps.

Credence stares at Dumbledore. “ _He’s betrayed us_.”

Graves takes a step forward, rage erupting inside him. “You knew where Credence was. You tested him. _You_ held back the Confederation.”

“He told us all the information to get us here so we could fight! The plans, the forces, movements—everything! And he hasn’t been wrong yet!” Picquery turns a glare on Graves. “He told us there was an Obscurial! Warned us of the strike on the Assembly!”

“ _There’s no Obscurial here but me,”_ Credence says, looking at Grindelwald again. The man is smiling, pleasant, polite, charming, utterly sickening. “ _There never was_.”

“And there you are wrong,” Grindelwald says smoothly. He reaches into his pocket and removes an orb of glass inside which swirls black smoke, oily, familiar. “She—I should say _they_ —are here.”

“Impossible!” Graves snaps, pacing in the other direction from Picquery. Even distracted, he knows to move into a flanking position, holding Grindelwald and Dumbledore between them, but his attention is mainly on that orb. That…destroying Rome?

Dumbledore shakes his head. “No. An Obscurus can be extracted from its host, as you know from Newton’s poor Obscurial.”

“She was the first,” Grindelwald says. He leans insolently upon the table, guaranteed of victory, sure of his power. “I had her after I took his case in New York, and there my experiments began. She did not survive, alas, but there are many like you in this world, Credence.”

“ _YOU COULD HAVE SAVED THEM_!” Credence roars, pointing at Dumbledore. The floor shakes with the force of his rage.

“I did save them,” Dumbledore says, looking steadfast and sorrowful. “I saved them from the terrible lives that you and my sister lived. And it was for the greater good. They feel no more pain. They must endure no more torment.”

“You killed the hosts?” Picquery demands.

Grindelwald nods slowly. “Regrettable,” he says. “But necessary. The greatest good can only be achieved through their sacrifice. Because of them, no more magical children must ever live in hell again, or find their magic suppressed until it would kill them.”

“ _We can survive!”_ Credence wails. His voice shakes the floor. “ _I lived! AND YOU WERE THE ONES WHO KILLED ARIANA!”_

A flash of pain crosses Dumbledore’s face. But a snarl of rage crosses Grindelwald’s. “She should never have died!” he snaps. “And you should never have turned on me, Credence Barebone! You could have been a part of the brave new world! You still can, if you will only join us! Sacrifice what you must for a greater world for us all!”

Credence takes three deliberate steps forward and Nurmengard rocks on its foundations. “ _It’s Graves_ ,” he says, mouth dripping black, and Graves’ heart sings. “ _My name. It’s Credence Graves_.”

Grindelwald laughs, short and sharp, and holds up the orb. “Unfortunate,” he says.

The orb falls.

Graves watches it go. In slow motion, almost, Credence with his hands open running forward as if he could catch it—

—and it falls—

—he reaches—

—it hits the floor—

—shatters—

 The world explodes.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to the people who hated the last chapter. 
> 
> We've seen the orb before, back in [the detour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302489), in which Queenie paid an accidental visit to Grindelwald's study. Here's the description:
> 
> _A plush green carpet fills the center of the room, a round table on it with parchment and quills in evidence and three comfortable chairs around it. On a side table in one corner rests a glass globe filled with swirling black clouds, a small decorative bowl, and a ticking clock; in the other corner is an armchair._
> 
> Furthermore, on his desk, Queenie finds a mathematical description of the energy produced by Grindelwald's weapon:
> 
> _And a frankly impossible number, at the bottom left-hand corner of the last page, crowded in as if the writer ran out of space. 27,000,000,000,000 joules. A number so huge it leaves Queenie’s head spinning. Twenty-seven trillion joules, so much energy that Queenie can’t wrap her mind around it. What is it for? What, exactly, is producing that much energy?_

Graves is hurled backwards by an explosion the likes of which he’s never seen in his life.

He slams into the wall and crashes to the ground, staggering upright. For just a moment, his eyes meet Grindelwald’s, and in the heat of the moment they share a look of real fear and sympathy. It’s not up to them anymore. Victory is in the hands of the most powerful magical beings in the world, beings who care absolutely nothing for them.

Credence’s body is nowhere to be seen, vaporized into the million magical fragments that are the Obscurus. Opposing him, a cloud of magical darkness three times his size, billowing through half the room. He’s clinging to the walls and ceilings, a thunderstorm facing a hurricane. Graves has a flash of wondering just what he’s doing, waiting—

And then he sees into the depths of the other Obscurial. There are figures there, shapes in the smoke and fire. Three children, worn and battered. A tall dark girl with long hair cloudy around her, a small pale boy with skinned knees and missing front teeth, and a very young child wearing a thin shift. They’re tied together, chains and shackles of magic ripping into thin wrists and ankles, and Graves is sick. They stare at Credence with white eyes.

For just a moment, Credence manifests, in the middle of his own Obscurus. “ _It’s all right_ ,” he says, reaching out. “ _You don’t have to do this_.”

_“WE DO,”_ they chorus, and then as one they lash out at him—

—and Grindelwald strikes.  

Graves is ready for him this time. Their third duel, the third time they’ve fought in person. He recognizes the way Grindelwald moves, his style. Graves ducks the Killing Curse that arcs over his head and returns fire with a Blasting Curse, knocking him back.

Off to the side Picquery and Dumbledore are tearing each other apart. Picquery conjures beasts of fire and spears of ice, hailing molten metal down on Dumbledore, who returns the assault with equally terrible spells. It’s an equal fight.

And for the first time, Graves knows— _knows_ —that he’s Grindelwald’s equal. Grindelwald is mighty, but he relies on surprise. Nothing he does now can surprise Graves.

Graves recognizes the spell Grindelwald’s about to cast and mirrors it back with a similar spell of his own. This one had smashed him into a wall, broken most of his bones—this time his spell meets it in midair, dissipating the force, and as he casts that with his wand he hurls a bolt of lightning with his free hand, meaning to shock Grindelwald.

A shield of stone ripped up from the floor grounds the lightning and gives Grindelwald just enough of a shield to return fire with a blast of white-hot fire. Graves sidesteps and smashes the stone shield, intending to pummel Grindelwald with flying stone, but Grindelwald was ready and every stone hurtles toward Graves.

He learned this one from Credence: he flings up his hand and transmutes the stones to stinging sand. And then he charges forward, running directly at Grindelwald, because no wizard is ever prepared for physical combat. Grindelwald certainly isn’t: his eyes go wide and he Apparates. Graves is ready—it’s his left side, wand-blind, and he gets off a Trip Jinx just as Grindelwald lands.

The castle is shaking, as the Obscurials roar and batter each other overhead. Occasionally it’s not just raw magic—Graves sees the flashes of spells going off. Credence is casting spells, brining true wizardry to bear in a way that the other can’t. But loose magic is still going everywhere, flying with impunity, masonry is falling, and the dueling is paused by a need to dive out of the way of a falling column. Graves and Picquery have to get out of the castle, but flight is impossible with Grindelwald and Dumbledore between them and the door.

An almighty screech nearly deafens Graves, and he sees Grindelwald’s Obscurus stagger in midair, flinching and curling in on itself, a portion wisping away into smoke. Credence roars in victory, redoubling his attack, and Graves sees an opening. Grindelwald is distracted, enraged by his weapon’s failure, and Graves has an opportunity.

He drops to his knees and plants both hands on the floor.

“ _BOMBARDA MAXIMA!_ ”

The floor explodes.

Graves goes flying again, but he’s ready—he Apparates in midair, landing on his feet by the door. The other three are staggering to their feet, and Graves hits Dumbledore with an assault of conjured chains, to slow him down. Picquery runs and together they sprint for the door, out of the way of the collapsing walls.

It was just in time.

There’s an unearthly scream and Graves looks over his shoulder. Grindelwald is pulling Dumbledore to his feet and, overhead, Credence is barreling straight upwards into the other Obscurus and they punch _straight through the roof of the castle—_

Graves and Picquery run.

They sprint down the collapsing hall and out into a scene of total chaos. The forest is on fire, the gates have been breached, the Inferi mostly dealt with and Curse-Breakers back in the fight, but it’s an even match against Grindelwald’s fighters. Graves sees Newt and Tina back to back, fighting in perfect synchronicity; Queenie is facing off with a wizard who’s no match for her Legilimency; he doesn’t see James but he sees a lance of ice that’s one of his favorite spells slam through an Inferius; and then he sees Jacob on the edge of the fight, Theseus shielding him as he shoots.

But the fighting has slowed as every single person looks up into the night sky over Nurmengard, where an apocalypse is taking shape. Credence and the other Obscurial, tearing at each other with magical teeth and talons, screaming loud enough to shake the mountainside.

“Behind!” Picquery shouts, and Graves turns just in time to cast a Shield Charm as Grindelwald emerges from the castle, already firing a spell of his own.

Instantly they’re back in the fight. Grindelwald whips at Graves with lightning and he’s on his heels for a moment, lightning searing and burning, just until he manages to get off a Gouging Spell that goes right through Grindelwald’s wand arm. Blood sprays and Grindelwald howls in pain, and it’s just enough to let Graves conjure a volley of acid drops that pelt the man. Picquery and Dumbledore are locked together, pressing closer and closer and something will have to give—

Jacob screams.

Graves jerks at the sound and out of his periphery he sees Jacob down, Theseus on his knees—

Agony lances through Graves as a Gouging Spell hits his leg. He cries out and staggers, trying desperately to regain his balance. But there’s no time to retaliate.

Overhead, the tide of battle has turned, and Credence is moving. Down—pushing the other Obscurus down, rushing at the ground—

The impact is like a shooting star coming to earth.

Nurmengard collapses.

Graves is knocked off his feet by the shockwave. His ears ring as he staggers upright again, already raising his wand to cast a Shield Charm. Grindelwald, eyes alight in manic glee, is on the attack.

Even though the castle is still crumbling, Graves has no time to look at the avalanche happening behind him. He is hurt, badly hurt and bleeding severely, and Grindelwald is beating him back step by step. He’s reduced to hurling Shield Charm after Shield Charm. He’s done for, but he won’t die easily—

He trips on a block of stone and in that moment, Grindelwald laughs.

Graves knows what’s coming.

He _hears_ the incantation.

Green light erupts from Grindelwald’s wand.

In that moment, time seems to slow down. This is it. It’s the end. Graves accepts it: he’s fought enough. The curse is flying and—

—he doesn’t even try to block it.

And then Credence is right in the path of the Killing Curse.

It hits Credence square in the chest.

Graves hears himself screaming, reaches for Credence, but Credence isn’t dead—he’s plunging to his knees, Obscurus howling in agony, and through the storm of smoke Graves sees the look of _shock_ on Grindelwald’s face.

The pain in his leg vanishes as Graves charges Grindelwald one last time.

He doesn’t even have the chance to dodge as Grindelwald casts another Killing Curse.

It rolls over him, a blast of green light, and vanishes.

Shock turns to horror on Grindelwald’s face, and Graves has the perfect opening.

“ _STUPEFY!_ ”

Grindelwald topples.

The battle stops.

Silence, but for the moaning of the wounded and the crackling of fires and the angry keen of Credence’s Obscurus.

No one moves to stop Graves as he crouches beside Grindelwald and rests the tip of his wand over his heart. “Rennervate,” he says.

Grindelwald’s eyes open and he has a terrible clarity in them. “So,” he says. “You’ve won.”

“Yes,” Graves says. He’s not sure, not entirely, why he let Grindelwald wake up. “You can still surrender.”

“No,” Grindelwald says plainly. “I can’t.”

Graves smiles. He tastes blood as his lip cracks. “Neither would I,” he says.

“I know.” Grindelwald sits up, stands up, and Graves stands too. He keeps the wand where it is, facing Grindelwald at wandpoint. Grindelwald makes no move for his wand, lying three feet away. He smiles, too, terribly. “I was never the villain, Percival. I have committed crimes for which history will crucify me, but I was never the villain of your story…I have only ever done my best for you. Remember that, when the histories tell of the crimes of Grindelwald…remember that I am the one who inspired in you the strength to become what you are. You must remember me…”

Credence’s voice is clear as a bell.

“Get out of the way, Percival,” he says.

Graves looks over his shoulder. Credence is standing in the middle of the Obscurus, battered, bruised, clothes shredded, a curse-scar sprawling over his chest. His eyes are clear and dark and _angry_.

“Yes, do,” Grindelwald murmurs. “Let me die by the hand of my greatest creation. Poetic.”

Credence bites off his words. “Percival. _Move_.”

Fires crackle all around, casting everything in eerie flickering light. Nurmengard is still crumbling behind them, falling in on itself. The smell of ozone is in the air, smoke, _blood_. There are injured people moaning and dying all around. Someone is crying.

Graves stares into Grindelwald’s mismatched eyes. In some way…he’s right, when he calls Credence his greatest creation. James’ words ring in Graves’ head, reminding him of what could happen if Credence has the chance to cast the Killing Curse he wants to use. If he cracks his soul.

He’ll become Grindelwald’s legacy, if he does.

Graves can’t let that happen.

And maybe more importantly, Graves can’t let anyone else be killed, wounded, by this man. This stops tonight. The pain. The fear. It’s over, and Graves will make sure of it.

His soul is a very small price to pay.

"Avada Kedavra."


	53. Chapter 53

Grindelwald’s followers scatter or surrender, with his death. What’s left to fight for, when their messiah proved mortal after all? Graves doesn’t care.

Credence retreats into himself, the Obscurus fading, and he refuses to talk to Graves. He sits on a fallen block of masonry, staring at Grindelwald’s abandoned body. There’s no time to worry about him just now, though.

Graves’ main concern is for Jacob, seriously wounded in the fight. He took a hit to the leg—a hit that will leave him with a permanent limp. He’s awake, by the time Graves gets to him where he sits against a tree, being healed by Theseus as best he can manage.

“I’m sorry,” Theseus keeps repeating, over and over.

“Hey,” Jacob finally says, as Graves approaches. “Cut it out. At least you don’t have to Obliviate me this time.”

Theseus smiles shakily, and as he turns away Graves sees him press his hands to his face, shoulders shaking. Graves kneels by Jacob. “Going to be all right?” he asks.

“Fine,” Jacob says, grey-faced with shock and pain. “Guess I’ll have a limp forever.”

“There are worse things,” Graves says, glancing down at his leg. The bleeding has stopped of its own accord, but he suspects he’ll never walk right again either. That’s the same leg he Splinched, so long ago. Perhaps he’s just meant to use a cane.

Dumbledore surrendered with Grindelwald’s death, too, and quietly assists in tending the wounded under the watchful guard of a furious Horace Slughorn. Graves wonders, for a moment, if he should ask why Dumbledore betrayed them all.

Then he decides he doesn't care.

They have to take an account. Rescue will be coming, but all those who came must be accounted for if they can be. Graves finds James and Yuliya, both battered half to pieces, but alive. And James’ glasses were, of course, shattered. Somehow his spare pair, in Graves’ pocket, survived the fight with Grindelwald, with only a hairline crack on one lens.

“I owe you, Percy,” James says with a shaky smile, accepting the glasses.

“No, you don’t,” Graves says. “Partners don’t owe each other.”

Graves finds Rosa, walking with gritted teeth and wearing a sling around one broken arm. “We lost two,” she says. “Died heroes.”

Winfrith is with the last remaining New York Auror, a very young woman who can’t stop crying over the bodies of her comrades. Nearby, one of her Curse-Breakers sits scorched and sliced beside his partner’s empty shell of a body. Graves finds Theseus again with the Weasleys, grieving over the body of Diana Weasley. He doesn’t disturb the man. Later, perhaps, they’ll talk. Graves only hopes Theseus is resilient enough to survive the shocks of the night.

Newt and Tina and Leta sit nearby, and they’re all talking quietly. Graves sees Tina hug Leta, and can’t retrain a genuine smile. Friendship forged in fire, perhaps.

For all that he looks, though, Graves himself can’t account for everyone. There are more dead, more missing, more wounded, from every single group of people who were brave enough to come, and he can’t put a name to the faces. He wishes he could. He wishes so badly that he could.

It’s almost dawn, before they can move again, before Seraphina—which she insists Graves call her, after that fight—can coordinate enough with Ya Zhou to get people here to evacuate them and a place to go. They don’t go back to Altenhaven: no, apparently Theseus had offered up the Scamander estate as a place of refuge. It’s a place with enough space for everyone, a place out of the way of Ministry attention, fortified and barricaded by the allies who wouldn’t come to this fight but stand ready for the battles to come, to help the fighters in the wake of the apocalypse they’d survived tonight.

All’s a madhouse, for a little while. Tina and Queenie, by good sense, make Credence scarce and chivvy he and Graves into the suitcase: he doesn’t argue once with the move. He doesn’t seem so angry with Graves, now, but rather thoughtful. He even manages a smile, when he and Graves are alone in the suitcase.

“I need to be alone a little while,” he says softly, and disappears into the forest. Graves lets him go. He’d like to be alone, too, and so he just sits down on the steps of the shed and waits for something to happen.

Up above, the mess is being cleaned up. Modesty is with Mr. and Mrs. Scamander for now, kept out of the way of the bustle. Graves is happy with that. She doesn’t know what happened at Nurmengard, and Graves doesn’t want her to know. Not yet. Someday.

Jacob comes down, after he’s been checked over by a proper Healer. He sits down by Graves, shoulder to shoulder. “Hell of a thing,” he says after a moment.

“Yes,” Graves agrees.

Tina comes in eventually. “Young Theseus is with Mrs. Scamander. I…needed a break,” she says, and steps back into the workshop to wash her soot-streaked face. When she comes out, looking peaked, Graves helps her over to sit on a bench by the Occamy nest. Credence emerges from the forest, and sits down beside her, and she puts an arm around him.

At last Newt brings Queenie in. “She needs quiet,” he says. “Awful headache.”

“No wonder,” Tina murmurs.

Newt sits on the ground, with Queenie’s head in his lap. He pets her hair gently.

For a while, no one talks much. Eventually, Queenie speaks without opening her eyes. “We did it,” she says softly.

“We did,” Graves says.

Newt shifts. “Was it worth it?” he asks softly. He glances at Jacob. “All of it.”

Jacob sits forward, indignant. “It would have been worth it if I’d gotten _killed_ ,” he says. “We stopped Grindelwald. We did something good.”

“Made a better world for ourselves,” Tina says, mouth set.

“And our children,” Graves says.

Tina smiles a little at him. “And them,” she says.

They’re quiet for a while again. The birds chirp in every tree; somewhere in the distance, the Nundu roars; in the forest, the Eyeless Deer flicker in and out. Credence pulls a button from his shirt and tosses it to the Niffler with a narrow glare when it approaches; it scurries off with its treasure. It feels so peaceful in the suitcase that Graves can almost forget what’s happening above.

“What next?” Jacob asks eventually. “So we killed Grindelwald. So what?”

“We go on,” Graves says.

Tina sniffs. “Sure. Just…go on.”

“It’s all we can do,” Newt says.

Credence shakes his head. “I wish it were easy.”

“It never is,” Newt says gently.

Jacob nods. “It ain’t ever,” he agrees. “People will ask questions.”

Graves shrugs. “There always are.”

“Does it ever end?” Tina demands plaintively. “Do we ever get a happily-ever-after?”

“Those are just for fairy tales,” Credence says softly. “We don’t get those.”

“Then what’s the point?” Jacob demands. “What’s the point of it all, if we’ve got to wake up and do it all again tomorrow?”

Graves holds up a hand, forestalling conversation. “We don’t have to do it all again tomorrow,” he says. “Grindelwald is gone. There are things left for us to do, and problems to solve. But it will be a better tomorrow anyway.”

Slowly, drawing herself upright, Queenie says, “The point’s that we were here, Jacob. The point’s that we laughed and cried and we _lived_.”

“Yeah,” Tina says. “The point is…we’re still here.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? They’re still here. No matter what tomorrow will bring, no matter what happens when they step out of this suitcase—they will still be here. Still here.

Credence joins Graves on the steps, when Queenie and Jacob have gone their way and Newt and Tina have gone theirs. They’re all in shouting distance, just in case, but they all want privacy. When Credence sits down he leans into Graves; Graves puts an arm around his shoulders.

“You took a Killing Curse for me,” Graves says quietly.

“Didn’t kill me.”

“I know.”

Credence shifts on the stair. “His spell didn’t kill you, either.”

“I’m sure it’s some soul magic thing,” Graves says. “I’ll ask around later.”

There’s a pause.

“And you cast a Killing Curse for me,” Credence says in a small voice.

“I did.”

Credence stares at the ground. “I…understand why. I do. I’m not angry, now.”

Graves waits. Credence needs to speak. It’s been a long time coming.

“I never wanted to control the Obscurus,” Credence says. “I hated it, hated controlling it, making it do what other people said it should. I always thought I needed it. That it was a part of me I could use. I let it make me…angry. Hateful. I don’t know what I would have become, if I’d killed Grindelwald.”

For the first time in what seems like years, Graves’ heart is light. “I’m proud of you, Credence.”

“Thank you,” Credence whispers. “For never giving up on me.”

Graves tightens his hold on Credence. “I would _never_ have given up on you,” he says.

Credence looks at him. His eyes are so tired. “I still wonder if we have a future.”

“We do,” Graves says, lifting a hand to cradle the side of Credence’s wan face. “We made a better tomorrow. Come hell or high water. We’re _free_.”

Credence leans forward and rests his forehead against Graves. “We’re free. And we’re still here.”

Graves kisses Credence, light and soft. “And I’ll be with you until the very end,” he says, when the kiss finally breaks.

They have tomorrow.

And no matter what comes with it, they have each other. They have their family. They have a chance, a chance they’ve never had before. There’s tragedy behind them, and there may be tragedy ahead of them, but tomorrow still looks brighter than today.

Tomorrow, for the first time in years, Graves will be able to look at the world without fear.

For all that it could have been a tragic ending, this will be a happy beginning.

 

 

 

_It's us, yes, we’re back again_

_Here to see you through 'til the day's end._

_And if the night comes, and the night will come,_

_Well, at least the war is over._

—Stars, “In Our Bedroom After the War”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Go to the next work in the series. There is one more story to be told.**


End file.
